


Delicate

by livthelion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, I was advised to change the rating from 'Teen and Up', I'm going to fix it, Ignore the title, M/M, Sex, Thanks for that, it seemed like a good idea at the time, one day, there's so much wrong with this, this is a piece of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livthelion/pseuds/livthelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been two days and Derek has apparently overcome his aversion to making himself comfortable in Stiles’ room. “Derek, that’s my shirt.” </p><p>“Yes.” He gives Stiles a look, <em>your point?</em></p><p>Stiles grinds his teeth. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”</p><p>“I ran out of clean ones.”</p><p>Obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fools in a spiral

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Delicate' by Damien Rice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Young the Giant's 'My Body' 
> 
> I have another fic, it’s a WIP, but I swear to God, I couldn’t even look at it until I got this one out. It was driving me insane. I literally have no idea where the fuck this came from. Probably Satan

Stiles is good at a lot of things, not that anyone notices. Shit at focus, but useful where it counts.

It doesn’t surprise him anymore when big, bad Alpha Hale climbs through his window, grunts out a few monosyllabic sentences and sets himself down in the chair near Stiles’ bookshelf (which is such a common occurrence these days that Stiles himself can’t sit there without feeling like he’s somehow overstepping his bounds) while he waits for Stiles to work his Google-magic.

You’d think that after months of stopping by at least once or twice a week to use Stiles as his own personal research bitch, Derek would start to relax around him a bit, but the guy is nothing if not consistent.

His shoulders stay tense enough that even Stiles’ spine twinges in sympathy, and the permanent scowl that seems to be etched into his very being doesn't let up for a moment. He just sits there, sometimes glaring a hole in one of Stiles’ thick textbooks—but usually glaring a hole in the back of Stiles’ head—until Stiles has offered the solution to whatever obstacle Derek is currently facing on his ‘Quest to Become the Best Alpha Ever!’, (cue inspirational theme music).

When Stiles hands over all the information he can dredge up on Derek’s latest inquiries, handwritten with copious—and sometimes (most times) not at all necessary—notes and observations inked in smaller print on the margins of the pages, Derek grunts a vague approximation of a ‘thank you’ and all but flees.

Sometimes he thinks about asking Derek what he thinks of his witty commentary. The only thing stopping him is that he’s pretty sure Derek Does Not appreciate it.

Whatever. Stiles doesn't need his approval. Stiles is fucking hilarious.

-

Derek wakes him up from a dead sleep to dig up some information on skinwalkers.

He shoots an amused look at Stiles as he shuffles out of bed, stomach growling audibly because, oh yeah, he’d been so exhausted that he’d fallen asleep without eating.

Honestly, he doesn’t even know how he got into bed, which would be worrying, except then he remembers that the bone-deep exhaustion he’s currently experiencing is probably due to all those suicides Coach had them do after a couple of the guys on the team had shown up early for practice and interrupted an argument he was having with Greenberg.

_Greenberg._

Stiles’ stomach gives another gurgle, and Derek snorts.

“Feel free to bring me some food next time you’re ‘in the neighborhood,’” Stiles grumbles grouchily as he grabs his notebook and pen. It's a miracle that the first thing that came out of his mouth isn't an insult; he's not exactly in the mood to be laughed at by smug Alphas that have a habit of waking him up at ridiculous hours for _research_ of all things. Not because someone's dying or there's an actual situation; just measly fucking research.

Stiles isn't bitter though. Not at all. He's just tired.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Derek says drily.

Stiles looks at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. It’s the closest thing to a joke he’s heard Derek make in all the time that he’s known him.

-

A few days later, Stiles gets home from a late lacrosse practice and finds take-out sitting on his desk, brown bag greasy and promising.

 _‘I was in the neighborhood_ ,’ is written in a neat hand on one of the notepads he has lying around.

Stiles really doesn’t know why it makes him smile so much.

-

“Thanks for the food,” Stiles says all casual-like when Derek crawls through his window later that week. “Curly fries are my favorite.”

“I know.” Stiles blinks in surprise, because _what_ , but then Derek is saying that he needs Stiles to look into some lore on kelpies because there’s something not-human in the lake out by Derek’s house.

“Uhh, I think the not-human things you’re referring to are called ‘fish,’” Stiles remarks smartly, even though he’s pulling out the notebook and pens he has set aside specially for these little excursions.

The eyebrows of doom come out to play. “If I were talking about fish, I would’ve said fish. I know what fucking fish are, Stiles.”

“I was just trying to be helpful!” Okay, no, he was just being an ass, but there was no need for Derek’s harshness.

“Well, don’t. Just shut up and do the fucking research.”

“Dick,” Stiles mutters under his breath, already turning back to his computer.

“I heard that,” Derek says flatly.

“Would you like a cookie?” Stiles mumbles, fingers flying over keys.

“No, why would I want- Hey!” A book hits Stiles square in the back of the head. He flails, nearly falls out of his chair.

He slowly spins to face Derek and gestures wildly from his head to the book on the ground. “OW?”

One side of Derek’s mouth twitches before it settles back into his signature scowl. “Your sarcasm is not necessary.”

“Sarcasm isn’t something that you can just _not!”_ Stiles’ indignation is warranted. Derek is just being ridiculous, now. “It’s permanent, it’s constant, it’s _life._ A Stiles without sarcasm is like, is like a world without sunshine! A Stiles without sarcasm is-”

“Preferable.”

“Yes, prefer- What?” Stiles gapes in horror. “No!”

“Yes, it is. It’s preferable.” Derek’s tone says not to argue with him.

Stiles ignores Derek and his dumb tone.

“No, it’s not! If I didn’t have sarcasm, I wouldn’t have anything to say at all!” He cannot stress this enough. Sarcasm is literally all he has. Well, besides his wits and his obvious good looks. Har har. “I would be mute!”

“In a perfect world,” Derek says, and the fucker actually sighs wistfully, expression to match.

Stiles glares at him balefully. He thinks he sees Derek’s face twitch in surprise before he meets Stiles’ glare with a much more intimidating one of his own, but it’s gone too quickly for him to be sure.

He flips Derek off and angrily whirls back around in his seat, resolving not to talk for the rest of his visit. If Derek thinks Stiles not talking is better than Stiles filling the silence, then fine. Stiles will be quiet. Stiles will be so quiet that it’ll make Derek uncomfortable.

-

Stiles is _bored._ It’s been an hour of absolute silence and he’s practically crawling out of his skin. Meanwhile, Derek is leisurely flipping through one of his books without giving the slightest hint of discomfort. Stiles (passive) aggressively writes down his notes as he sorts possible fact from blatant bullshit, his slanted scrawl growing sloppier as he nears the end of the third page—he’s filled them in front and back, mind you—until he finally gives up, throws his pen down and decides that he’s probably gotten enough information to satisfy Alpha Douchenozzle (as he’s just now decided to start calling Derek. He’s tired and it fits, okay).

He rips the pages out of his notebook, leaving on the torn edges that usually so infuriate him just to bug Derek, and throws the papers haphazardly at the edge of his desk.

It is four-fifteen in the morning and he has to be up for school in less than three hours. Fuck his life.

He pointedly ignores Derek as he turns out the light, shoves his pants off and gets into bed.

Damn his quickly adjusting eyes.

Derek is staring at him, blinking owlishly. He gets up and grabs the pages from the desk, pausing at the window and shooting an almost uncertain look in Stiles’ direction.

“Thanks,” Stiles thinks he hears, but no. That probably didn’t happen.

-

“Dude, have you been hanging out with Derek?” Stiles glances up to see Scott’s face is scrunched up in confusion. It was a look that Stiles used to find endearing. ‘Used’ and ‘to’ being the operative words here.

“Something like that,” Stiles says, turning back to his notebook. He doesn’t want to tell Scott about it. Doesn’t want to have to explain that he’s Derek’s go-to research guy because honestly, he shouldn’t have to. Scott should know. And Scott _would_ know if he’d bothered to pay any attention to Stiles besides on the one day Allison is out sick.

It’s funny. He thought that once things had settled down with Gerard and everything, he’d get to spend more quality time with his best bud, but wouldn’t you know it, Allison had a change of heart about their break up and Scott is nowhere to be found.

“But _why?”_

“Not much else to do, these days.” It comes out with just a hint of bitterness because Stiles is a subtle guy.

Surprisingly, Scott picks up on it.

“Aw, Stiles, don’t be like that,” Scott whines, giving Stiles his puppy eyes. Stiles isn't falling for that one again. No, sir. He is putting his foot down and he is going to stay pissed.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, dude. It’s just, things have been so good with Allison lately, and I really want us to work out this time. I’m sorry I’ve been such a shitty friend, I promise I’ll come around more often!” He looks so earnest, Stiles kind of just wants to stop being angry at him and ruffle his hair.

Scott senses his victory. “I’ll come by after work, okay?” Scott says, smiling excitedly.

Damn Stiles and his soft heart. “Okay,” he agrees with a sigh. Not like he had any plans. No dates to speak of besides the one he’d made with his hand.

He supposes he can reschedule.

-

Stiles runs to the library to pick up a few books on folklore and loses track of time, ends up with fifteen minutes until Scott gets off. He hastily checks out his small stack of books and speeds home.

Scott doesn’t show.

He waits for an hour, and then two, before turning in for the night.

Which is kind of pathetic because it’s nine o’clock on a Friday night, but he wasn’t lying when he said he didn't have anything better to do. He falls asleep and wakes a while later to the familiar sound of his window being pushed open.

“Oh, hey, Scott. You’re only about six hours lat-” he props himself up on his elbow and peers at the figure, wondering if he should be panicking because he’s home alone and whoever it is that’s perched on his windowsill is much too tall, too built for Scott.

“Uh. Hey,” says Derek.

Stiles huffs, irritated all over, and turns on his side.

It’s been a couple weeks, but he’s still not speaking to Derek. He isn't talking until the werewolf asshole takes it back.

Derek sits in his chair, sighs quietly. “Still mad?”

Stiles stills. This isn’t how things usually went. Derek has actually seemed to enjoy the silence.

He waits for Derek to start in on the latest development in his mystical journey for world domination, but he doesn’t. They sit in silence, and Stiles nods off after a few minutes.

-

He must’ve rolled over in his sleep because when he wakes he’s facing Derek’s chair where Derek himself is currently dozing. He’s breathing quietly, his mouth slightly parted, somehow managing to make what must be a horribly awkward position look comfortable. Stiles is briefly tempted to take a picture and send it to everyone in his pack. He’s almost certain that Derek would wake and possibly annihilate him.

He chucks a pillow at him instead, because that self-preservation instinct that everyone's born with? Yeah, Stiles’ is broken.

Derek shifts, teeth gnashing as he snarls, claws popping out. “Stiles?” he asks blearily, once he’s seen that there’s no discernible threat and reverted to human form.

Stiles stares at him, raises his eyebrows in a silent question, _what are you even doing here?_

“I, uh, the roof kind of caved in at the house in the middle of the night and I couldn’t go back to the train depot because the Argents know about it now so…” Derek trails off awkwardly.

“God, you mean _finally_ caved in.” The roof had been sagging ominously the last time Stiles had been there and that was months ago. Stiles yawns, scrubs a hand over his face. “I suppose that’s okay then. ‘s my dad here?” he asks because it’s probably around five a.m. and his dad had been known to pull fifteen hour shifts if no one sends him home.

“So, you’re talking to me again?”

“Just check if my dad’s home, Hale,” Stiles sighs, wishing he could take the words back and go back to giving Alpha Sourwolf the silent treatment.

Derek stills and tilts his head to the side, listening. “He’s here. He’s already sleeping.”

Stiles exhales in relief. “Good. So, where are you planning on staying?”

“Here.” There’s an implied _duh,_ there.

His laughter dies out when he realizes Derek isn't joking. “Not happening. No. My dad is the sheriff. You’re what? Twenty-two, twenty-four and you want to stay in the bedroom of sheriff’s sixteen year old son? You’re going to get arrested. My dad has _literally_ arrested you before.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “And whose fault was that?” Whoops.

“Mine and I am so, very sorry about that, but in our defense, we thought you were a psycho killer!” It was only reasonable to assume after all of the popping up in the rooms of teenage boys and the burying of his sister in an unmarked grave and the unsubtle creeping.

Derek’s moving to the window, shoving it up silently and throwing a leg over the edge. “Where are you going?” There's no way that Derek is giving up that easily.

“I’m going to go grab some of my clothes from my car. I need a shower.”

Stiles panics. “Where’s your car? Did you park it outside?”

“Yeah, I pulled it right into the drive," Derek says brightly. "How stupid do you think I am? It’s down the street.” He’s gone and back with a few articles of clothing held between his teeth as he climbs back through the window.

Stiles continues the argument as if he never left. “Dude, you can’t stay here!” 

“What am I supposed to do, then? It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.” He doesn’t look at Stiles when he says it, and Stiles is reminded that the guy’s entire family had kind of been brutally murdered by Argent’s psychotic sister and Stiles hasn't seen him with anyone that isn't a self-esteem deprived, adolescent werewolf. 

“Fine. I’m not covering for you if my dad catches you.”

“Fine.” Derek grabs one of Stiles’ towels and heads towards the door.

“What’re you doing?”

Derek’s extremely expressive eyebrows are calling him a moron. “I told you, shower. Haven’t had a proper one in ages.”

“You can’t shower right now!” Stiles protests. “My _dad’s_ here!”

“Your dad’s sleeping, it’ll be fine.”

“What if he wakes up?!”

“Then I’ll hear and I’ll get out,” Derek replies exasperatedly.

“But what if he hears the shower running and comes to check on me and starts asking questions because I haven’t showered?” Stiles hadn’t gotten his suspicious nature from nowhere, after all.

“Well, if you’re really that concerned, you could always join me.” Derek leaves the room smirking. And he's clearly making fun of Stiles, but that doesn't stop him from gaping at the door for an indeterminate amount of time after he's gone.

-

It’s been two days and Derek has apparently overcome his aversion to making himself comfortable in Stiles’ room.

“Derek, that’s my shirt.”

“Yes.” He gives Stiles a look, _your point?_

Stiles grinds his teeth. _“Why_ are you wearing my shirt?”

“I ran out of clean ones.”

Oh, obviously. Why didn't he think of that?

“We do have a washer and dryer,” Stiles points out.

“I can’t exactly go downstairs and start washing my clothes. As you’ve repeatedly brought to my attention, your father is just itching for a reason to put me away for the rest of my unnatural life.” Okay, Derek needs to find somewhere else to stay. He's been spending too much time with Stiles and his sarcasm is rubbing off on him in all kinds of terrible ways.

“Give me your clothes, asshole,” Stiles sighs. “I’ll wash ‘em for you, so you can stop stretching out my shirts.”

“I think you’re just mad I look better in your clothes than you do," Derek says, mouth twitching.

Stiles snorts. “Doesn’t exactly take much.”

Derek’s expression is indecipherable as he jumps out of the window.

He comes back with a duffel bag full of clothes. A _large_ duffel bag.

They have a silent conversation—Derek using his eyebrows as a method of communication and Stiles using his entire face and flailing limbs—during which Stiles asks Derek why the fuck he has so many fucking clothes and Derek mostly just insults him and tells him to wash the fucking clothes already.

Stiles gives in, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He separates a load of clothes, throws them in his laundry basket and hauls them downstairs.

“Washing?” Stiles’ dad asks, peering over a case file.

“Mm-hmm.” Don’t ask questions, don’t ask questions.

“Voluntarily? You feeling okay? I usually have to threaten bodily harm to get you to wash.”

“All part of growing up,” Stiles says cheerily, ducking into the laundry room.

“‘Growing up,’” he hears his father scoff, but he doesn't say anything else so Stiles considers himself lucky.

He’s pouring the detergent in the wash and throwing Derek’s clothes in as quickly as he can until he's left with nothing but a pair of underwear.

And really, it figures he’d wear these; they’re black (like the void that once held his soul) and probably really tight because obviously, when it comes to clothing, the only words Derek understands are 'leather' and 'form-fitting' and okay, Stiles has been standing there, staring at Derek's underwear for at least a few minutes. Totally not weird.

Whatever, it's not the strangest thing he's been caught doing by a long shot.

He drops the boxers in the washer, starts it up, and rushes upstairs before his dad has a chance to interrogate him further about his unusual behavior.

“I take it you don’t wash all that often,” Derek says from where he’s made himself at home on Stiles’ bed. Stiles wants to tell him to get his nasty fucking shoes off of his bed but he’s not completely suicidal and also, he’s pretty sure Derek hasn’t taken his shoes off the entire time he's been here, not even to sleep. He settles for leveling a look of exasperation towards the werewolf and flops onto his computer chair.

“Been kinda busy with y’know, high school, lacrosse, helping keep all of your furry asses alive,” Stiles says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

Derek turns the book he’s reading over, looks up at Stiles. “Things have been pretty quiet lately,” he points out. Which is true. Besides that thing with the rogue Alpha, the bloodthirsty redcaps, and the whole Jackson and the psychotic fairy godmother ordeal. Oh, and don’t forget the possible kelpie sighting!

“And yet, you’ve been here at least once a week for the last few months. I see you more often than I see Scott. Not too difficult to accomplish, seeing as I haven’t seen Scott outside of school in nearly three months,” he grumbles, still a little miffed that Scott blew him off once again and _still_  hasn't even texted him offering an excuse or an explanation or an apology.

“Scott’s an idiot,” Derek says, brows furrowed.

“No, he’s n-” Derek smirks and dips his head to indicate that yes, he did hear that Stiles was about to lie. “Okay, he’s not the brightest crayon in the box,” Stiles gives him, because it’s kind of ridiculously true. “But he’s still my best friend.”

The crease between Derek's eyebrows deepens. “Not a very good one.”

“Yeah, he is!” Stiles is defending him out of some lingering sense of loyalty, but even without the werewolf hearing, he knows the words don’t quite ring true.

“You know I can tell when you’re lying; I don’t know why you do it. Scott is not a good friend. There’s hardly any of his scent left in your house,” his tone makes his disapproval clear.

Stiles barks out a laugh. “I know that might mean something to _you,_ but I, like most people, don’t evaluate my friends based on the strength of their scent in my house,” he sneers.

Derek's expression goes from- not concerned exactly, but something close to it, to cold in an instant, “So, you're trying to say Scott’s this great friend, right?” Derek nods as if he might believe him, “Tell me, Stiles. How is your buddy, Scott? Did he tell you about the hunter that came through town last week?” Stiles tries not to let his surprise show because no Scott definitely had not mentioned that. “No? Did he tell you that Argent has given him actual permission to date his daughter this time? It's strictly probationary of course, but I figure you know all about that considering he’s your _best_ frie-”

“Why do you even care?” Stiles speaks over him, trying to cut off the resentful thoughts, the insecurities. He was so sure he’d buried them deep, deep enough that he wouldn't have to deal with them again, but they’ve resurfaced, dredged up by Derek’s words.

Derek shrugs, flips his book over and starts reading as if the conversation has suddenly started to bore him.

“Answer me, you asshole!” Because Stiles can’t take a hint, can’t let sleeping dogs lie. “Why do you care? For that matter, why do you even come around? Any one of your minions could do the research for you.” It’s a thought that Stiles has had many times, but never voiced for fear that Derek would realize he was right and take his wolfish business elsewhere and then Stiles really would be alone and out of the loop completely. “I’m not even _in_ your fucking pack. I’m just the token human in this twisted, fucked up fairy tale. I’m fodder. I’m not meant to survive in _your_ world. So, what the fuck does it matter to y-” Derek is on his feet with a snarl, eyes flashing angrily.

He tosses the book on the bed and stalks to the window, hurdles over the edge, leaves Stiles with no answers and more questions.

Stiles droops back into his chair with a sigh.

Freaking werewolves.

-

He thinks about asking Derek where he goes, what he does when he’s not lurking in Stiles’ room. How he pays for gas, how he can afford so many leather fucking jackets.

Stiles has counted at least four.

No one needs four leather jackets.

Questions hum in the back of his skull, nagging and driving him insane, but Stiles is the king of ignoring things and hoping they go away. So that’s what he does.

-

His bedside alarm clock says it’s nearly three a.m. when he hears shuffling footsteps, the whisper of clothes being discarded, feels the bed dip behind him.

“Derek?” he asks even though he could just turn over and check for himself, but fuck that, it took him forever to get comfortable.

He gets a grunt in response. And yeah, definitely Derek. No one else can quite manage to make such an infinitesimal noise sound so broody and irritated.

Stiles shrugs mentally, too tired to really wonder why Derek decided to join him in his bed instead of taking his usual chair.

At least he took off his shoes, Stiles thinks when Derek’s surprisingly soft feet brush his as he tries to find a comfortable position.

He’s gone when Stiles wakes up in the morning, the rumpled sheets on the left side of his bed the only sign that Stiles hadn’t actually dreamed up the strange encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to fight it. I did. But I just really fucking love parenthesis. Also, it's ridiculously hard for me to write seriously. Not, seriously but in like a serious tone idk stop judging me
> 
> The song the title's taken from is actually relevant to the fic itself, or it was _supposed_ to be when I started, but things rarely go the way I plan lmao


	2. Soft Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is 10 P.M. Y'know what that means?
> 
> I got this shit in on Sunday (Like I said I would) Whoot whooot, motherfuckers!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from 'Soft Shock' by Yeah Yeah Yeahs  
> even though she never actually says soft shock it's sharp shock and really
> 
> SO, I fixed up the first chapter. Kind of like a lot. You don’t _have_ to re-read since the essence is basically the same, all I did was change some wording and add/take out a few things, (but I’d feel better about taking your kudos if you did because it was really shitty the first time around lol)
> 
> Let me know if you see any mistakes :D

Derek has been avoiding Stiles for days, always coming home well after Stiles falls asleep and gone before he wakes. He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much. It just... _does._

Despite the sudden influx of invites to hang out with a certain ragtag group of puppies—which he turns down in favor of wallowing alone at home—Stiles is constantly bored. So, with his free time he plots an ambush.

An extremely intricate and well thought-out ambush that includes Stiles feigning sleep and launching his (verbal) assault the instant Derek sets foot in his room.

Stiles is so fucking clever. He'd marry himself just for his beautiful brain.

-

Stiles clicks on the light the moment he sees Derek swinging a leg over the window sill, and steeples his hands like an old school villain.

“Hello, _Derek,”_ he says, drawing the name out.

He’s pretty sure he sees a brief flare of panic cross the older man’s face before he pulls himself the rest of the way in with a grimace and leans against the wall looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“How does it feel to have your dastardly ploy of avoidance foiled by my brilliant ambush?” Stiles is proud of himself for this one. If Derek weren’t present, he’d be giving himself a well-deserved pat on the back.

“Oh, is that what this is,” Derek deadpans.

 _“YES,”_ Stiles squawks, indignant.

“Well, then, it’s soul-crushing. I’m absolutely devastated.” Derek is definitely starting to sound amused.

Stiles jabs a smug finger at him. “As you _should_ be.”

Derek abandons his awkward stance with a snort and sits on the edge of the bed, tugging off his shoes. “Why are you still awake, it’s two-thirty. Don’t you have school in the morning or something?”

“Oh, so suddenly you care about me staying up on a school night,” Stiles returns, all sarcasm. “Why? Because I’m not doing anything that’s beneficial to you?”

Derek ignores him and climbs under the comforter, offering a pointed, “Good night _,_ Stiles.”

Stiles manages to stay still for about half a second before he’s fidgeting, mouth opening and closing. It takes most of his willpower to keep himself from talking.

Derek exhales heavily. “Just spit it out.”

“You’re not going to avoid me anymore, right? I mean, it would only be polite since I’m letting you stay at my house _free of charge_ and I’m being extra nice and letting you sleep in my bed which I don’t even let _Scott_ share my bed since that one time- I cannot tell you about because of the code. Bro code, that is. And also, I washed your clothes, which, seriously, why do you have so many clothes? You have more clothes than I do and I haven’t thrown anything out since I was like twelve. Actually, I’m pretty sure I still have my favorite Batman shirt from when I was in kindergarten, but-”

“Okay, I’ll stop avoiding you, fuck!”

“What, you don’t wanna hear about my shirt? Are you sure? It’s really badass. Like, there’s this big 80’s era Batman in the middle of it and he’s standing on top of this building and you can see Gotham in the backgrou-”

Derek groans. “Oh my God. Shut up. I don’t care about your stupid shirt.”

Stiles goes on as if he hadn’t spoken, “-background. I found it in a box last year and I got obsessed with the idea of finding another one big enough to fit. Didn't happen, of course. I would totally still wear the one I have, but I think someone would call my dad if I went out in public wearing a midriff bearing top. He doesn’t know about the bellybutton piercing yet, don’t wanna spring that on him and give him a heart attack or some-”

Stiles stops mid-word when he realizes Derek is laughing. Oh, he’s trying to hide it, sure, but the unmistakable shaking of his shoulders is giving him away.

And because Stiles’ a freak and he’s really not sure how to handle all of… _that_ , he blurts, “My mom got me the shirt.” Derek stills, and slowly rolls onto his back.

Derek hesitates, “Is she-?”

“Dead?” Stiles offers bluntly.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. She is.” Nearly eight years later and he still has a hard time saying it aloud.

Derek is silent for a moment before he asks, “How?”

“Wow, you’re really lacking those social skills, aren’t you?” Stiles laughs, the sound harsh. He can feel Derek’s eyes on him as he reaches over and turns the light off, sinks from where he’s sitting against the headboard until his back is flat on the bed.

“I’m- You’re right. That was insensitive of me.”

Stiles waves him off. “It was cancer,” he says it almost casually, but then he feels the lump forming in his throat, feels his eyes pricking. _Derek’s entire family was_ murdered _and you don’t see him crying about it_ , a disgusted voice in his brain whispers. A wave of shame washes over him. He clears his throat and stares at the ceiling. “She was sick for a long time, it was better she went when she did. It was killing my dad to see her like that.”

“What about you?” he hears Derek ask quietly.

What _about_ me? Stiles thinks. He doesn’t respond.

“I had a little sister,” Derek says sometime later, it could’ve been a couple of minutes or a few hours, Stiles doesn’t know.

“What was she like?” Stiles asks, hesitant.

The loss is thick in his voice when he rasps out, “Innocent. She was innocent.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know if there even _are_ words to comfort someone for the loss of their entire family. So, he does what he would do if it were Scott losing Melissa, what Scott did for him when Stiles was near-catatonic, putting on a brave face for his dad. He gives Derek a hug.

He’s stiff and unyielding at first but then he just melts, like Stiles had when Scott had done this for him. He doesn’t cry like Stiles did, tears and snot everywhere, but for the few seconds he holds Stiles it’s like he’s been starving for it.

Derek lets him go and stiffly says, “Good night,” his tone almost formal, before he turns on his side.

Stiles follows suit, flushing, because seriously? What the fuck was he thinking? He’d just given a hug to a grown man _that didn’t even like him._ Shit, Derek barely even _tolerated_ him and also, has a whole lot of anger issues and a very sharp set of teeth that he could (and often threatens to) kill Stiles with and-

“Thanks. Stiles.”

Maybe it wasn’t all bad, then.

-

It’s strange, at first, the pattern that he and Derek fall into. Stiles comes home after lacrosse to find Derek lounging on his bed, Stiles does his homework and tosses questions over his shoulder because Sourwolf is scary good at math, Stiles cooks dinner, eats with his dad and sneaks an extra plate up for Derek.

“You’ve been eating a lot lately,” his dad is staring at him speculatively.

“I always eat a lot,” Stiles deflects.

The sheriff narrows his eyes. “A lot more,” he clarifies. “Anything you want to tell me?”

Stiles panics briefly before schooling his expression into one of distress. “Yes, actually. Dad, I’m- I’m-”

“You’re what, Stiles?” his father asks, looking torn between being frightened and furious.

 _“Pregnant.”_ Stiles buries his head in his hands and fake-sobs.

His dad cuffs him on the back of the head. “Little shit.” He gets up and grabs his keys off the counter, points to the mess on the table and in the sink, “You’ve got clean up. I’m going into work for a few hours.”

“But, Da- _ad,”_ Stiles whines. His father shoots him a warning glare. “Ugh, fine.”

“Pregnant,” he mutters as he walks out the door. “That boy’s not right.”

Derek comes down the stairs, mouth twitching. “Who’s the lucky guy?” Stiles lets out a startled laugh. He still isn’t used to this Derek, the one who can be occasionally funny and isn’t always looking at Stiles like he wants to kill him anymore. “Or should I say unlucky.”

Stiles gives him a flat look. “Ha ha, you’re so clever. Really. My sides are splitting.”

“I’m thrilled,” Derek says, snatching up one of the olives out of the pile that Stiles has picked out of his salad and moved to the side of his plate.

“Ugh, dude, gross.”

Derek looks at him as if he’s insane. Well, it’s actually just a minor shift in the eyebrow area, but Stiles has learned how to differentiate between most of Derek’s facial expressions. “Where’s mine?”

“What, you think I serve you when I serve myself and my father, who, might I remind you, is the sh-”

Derek flaps a hand at him dismissively, “Yeah, yeah. Sheriff. I got it the first fifty times, thanks.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying your new found sarcasm, Sourwolf, but let’s get one thing straight;  _I’m_ the funny guy around here.”

“Says you.”

“Says _everyone!”_   Stiles backtracks, “Okay, no one actually acknowledges that I’m funny, but I totally am,” he insists. Derek turns around and lifts his eyebrows like,  _right,_ and goes back to rifling through the cupboards. Stiles makes a face at his back and slumps down in his seat, pouting. He’s _totally_ funny.

“Thanks,” Derek grunts after he’s seated, plate piled up with salad and lasagna.

“No problemo, buddy,” Stiles says, clapping him on the back. He gets up and takes his and his father’s plates to the sink.

He gets distracted washing dishes and goes on auto-pilot for a bit before he comes back to reality and realizes he’s humming to himself. And that he’s handing off his soapy dishes for someone else to rinse and dry.

Derek wiggles his fingers in Stiles’ face, waiting for the next dish, and Stiles starts. “Oh, fuck. When’d you get here?”

Derek grabs the dish out of Stiles’ hand before he can drop it. “Been here for about five minutes. Where’d you go?”

Stiles shrugs. “Dunno, I was just thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Derek chuckles and Stiles can’t even be offended because he’s too busy marveling over the fact that apparently Derek laughs. Like _aloud._

“I’ll try not to,” he says, a beat too late.

Derek looks at him strangely. “What is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your hea-” he shakes his head. “Nothing.” Stiles notices that the tips of his ears are pink.

He shrugs again, handing the last pan over to Derek. “Oh, look at that, we’re done!” Stiles says brightly.

“Still have to clean off the counters,” Derek points out like the buzzkill he is.

“Christ, you sound like my dad,” Stiles grumbles. He half-heartedly wipes down the countertops and stomps upstairs, Derek following.

Stiles hovers awkwardly for a minute before he jerks his head towards the hall, “‘m gonna take a shower,” he informs Derek, who just grunts and flops onto his bed.

Stiles catches his reflection when he enters the bathroom and he’s _red_. There’s a flush spread from the collar of his shirt to his fucking forehead.

What the hell.

-

Stiles’ dad starts to pick up a lot of extra shifts. Which means Derek has free reign of Castle Stilinski while Stiles is at school.

Stiles only screams like a bitch about seventy percent of the time now when Derek randomly pops out at him. A vast improvement over the first few times, seeing as he no longer nearly pisses himself. Derek thinks it’s hilarious, though he never shows it outright. Stiles is onto him.

The wolf bastard.

Derek is usually around; it’s rare that Stiles comes home to an empty house. And shockingly, Stiles doesn’t mind much. The company makes him feel less lonely, even if said company is a grumpy ball of fur. Kinda like a kitty! Except this kitty has a lethal pair of claws and fangs and likes to make comments about tearing out Stiles' throat.

They work out a system, Stiles feeds Derek and washes their clothes and Derek helps him wash the dishes. Stiles would make him take the trash out, too, but unfortunately they can’t chance someone seeing Derek coming in and out of his house. Nosy neighbors and all.

Derek lets Stiles chatter at him and only complains about his ‘incessant babble’ constantly. Stiles calls it a win-win. He gets someone to talk to—albeit an unwilling participant—and Derek gets someone to glare at.

Derek calls him an idiot and says that there’s nothing positive about this arrangement and he’s looking forward to never having to see Stiles again after he fixes his house.

Stiles thinks he’s lying.

-

Stiles sees Scott waiting for him when he’s heading to first period and promptly turns and takes the long way around to class, knowing Scott’s wounded puppy face is going to haunt him the rest of the day. He’s surprised Scott hasn’t given up yet. They’ve been doing this dance for weeks.

“You smell like Derek,” Jackson says when he takes his seat next to Stiles in English.

Stiles really regrets talking himself into sleeping in this morning and forgoing the shower because he’s heard this from just about every member of the pack. (Besides Scott, who he’s still avoiding).

It’s gotten him several werewolf cuddles. Some very public and uncomfortably snug werewolf cuddles.

Luckily, it’s their last class of the day so Stiles doesn’t have to deal with Jackson creepily sniffing at him for much longer.

It’s awkward as hell trying to explain to Danny and Lydia why Jackson has his arms wrapped around Stiles, his face buried in his neck. Not that he really knows what’s going on, Jackson hadn’t exactly enlightened him when he bounded after Stiles—who was only trying to get to his freaking jeep—tackled him and would not. Let. Him. _Leave._

“Stop hogging Stiles,” Erica says, pushing Jackson off of him roughly and flinging her arms around Stiles’ neck.

“Why’re they being so clingy?” Stiles asks Boyd frantically, Boyd being the only wolf who hadn’t accosted him yet.

“You smell like Alpha. We haven’t seen him in a while,” he says, voice strained. “It’s difficult to control the impulse to,” he pauses, searching for the right word.

“Assault me?” Stiles suggests helpfully, arms suddenly full of a wriggling Isaac.

Isaac has been the worst. He’d found Stiles between classes, followed him to the bathroom, clung to him at the lunch table.

Boyd gives him one of his rare smiles. “Assault works.” His smile fades as quickly as it appeared. “Why _do_ you smell like Derek, Stiles?”

“Huh?” Stiles tries to push Isaac’s face out of his neck and replays Boyd’s words. “Oh, he’s crashing at my house.” Shouldn’t they know this?

They all freeze, even Isaac, who’d been exuberantly sniffing his neck, and stare at him in a way that makes him feel like he’s Zaphod Beeblebrox and a second head has mysteriously popped up somewhere on his person.

“Why are they looking at me like that?” he asks Lydia because she’s the only one who seems completely unaffected by this bit of news.

“Probably because of the fight,” Lydia answers.

Isaac whines and moves away from Stiles guiltily.

“What fight?” Stiles asks.

“Oh, the one that Derek had with Scott over you,” she replies airily. “He kept saying that Scott was a shitty friend and that it was Scott’s fault you didn’t think you were pack. I think that’s what he sounded angriest about.” She considers it. “No, he was probably angrier when Isaac and Boyd stopped him from trying to kill Scott. It was weeks ago, I’m surprised you haven’t heard,” she tilts her head, gaze thoughtful.

Stiles gapes. What the fuck? “But, I’m not,” he protests. They stare at him, eyes disbelieving. “I mean, I’m not pack?” he says uncertainly.

Isaac frowns. “You don’t want to be pack?” Even Jackson looks a bit hurt. 

Okay, weird.

“I-” guess? Stiles starts to say, because he hadn’t really considered it before, didn’t even know it was an option for him.

“Stiles,” a voice barks from behind him.

“Oh, hey, Creeper Wolf,” Stiles says cheerfully, by now completely used to Derek’s random appearances.

The rest of the pack stares at Derek with wide eyes, fidgeting as if they’re restraining themselves from jumping atop their Alpha.

Derek glares at them until they disperse, Isaac and Jackson looking over their shoulders forlornly.

“Rude. They just wanted some Alpha love.” Derek grabs him by the arm and drags him to his jeep. “Why’re you being so rough?” Stiles complains loudly, earning a few looks from passersby. Derek glares at them until they look away, and turns his glare back on Stiles. “And why are you so angry all the time? It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted just looking at you.”

Derek pushes him towards the driver’s side before stalking around and getting in the passenger’s seat.

Stiles bounces in his seat a little, feeling giddy. “Why didn’t they know you were staying at my place? Why aren’t you talking to them? Because Isaac and Boyd didn’t let you kill Scott?”

Derek lets out an annoyed huff. “Erica and Jackson were willing to restrain them.”

Stiles laughs. “Of course, they were. Why am I not surprised.” He turns his jeep on and looks at Derek expectantly. Derek quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing. “So,” Stiles prompts.

Derek ignores him. He continues anyways, “So, why didn’t your puppies know that you’re staying with me?”

“Because I didn’t tell them.”

Stiles nods, wisely choosing not to make a sarcastic remark. “And why didn’t you?”

“Why should I.”

“Uhm, because you’re kind of like their parent,” Stiles says.

“They have parents, Stiles.”

Stiles sits back. Huh. That’s right. The only one without any parents at all is Isaac. “You know what I mean. They need you to look after them. You know, since you bit them and turned them into,” he glances around the now empty parking lot and stage whispers, “ _Werewolves_.”

Derek doesn’t speak.

Stiles turns off his jeep. “We’re not leaving until you give me a straight answer, dude.”

Derek shrugs. “I can always walk.”

“I can always throw your shit out of my window,” Stiles counters.

Derek narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“I totally would.” Derek growls and Stiles smirks, knowing that Sourwolf could hear that he wasn’t lying.

“Fine,” Derek grits out. “They were being… disrespectful.”

“To you? Like, _directly?”_  Stiles asks. “I seriously doubt it.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Please,” Stiles scoffs.

Derek growls in frustration. “They were asking questions.” And yeah, that sounds like something that would piss Derek off.

“About?” Stiles asks.

“About why I've been including you in pack business.” Derek looks uncomfortable, like he’d rather be just about anywhere else right now.

“Oh.”

They sit in awkward silence.

“So, why _have_ you been?”

“Just start the car, Stiles.”

“No.”

“Do you want to die.” 

Stiles stares at him stonily, not budging.

Derek glares out the windshield for a few minutes until he cracks under Stiles’ gaze.

“Fine! Jesus  _fuck_ , just stop _staring_ at me,” Derek snaps. Stiles fist pumps, but internally because he likes his throat. “The wolf seems to think we owe you. For saving us. Me. Those few times.” He grits it out like it’s killing him to have to explain himself. “Even though I’ve saved your dumbass plenty,” Derek adds petulantly.

That actually makes sense in a strange way. It explains why Derek was checking up on him so much before he virtually _moved in_ with him. (He knew there were no kelpies!) What it doesn’t explain is the sinking feeling in Stiles’ stomach.

Stiles tries to ignore it and turns on his jeep. “Yeah, well, consider us even. You’re off babysitter duty, Hale.”

“I’m not on babysitter duty anymore, dipshit.” Stiles looks over at him, and watches in fascination as Derek’s ears grow pink.

Stiles nods probably too much. “Ooh. Right.” He peels out of the parking lot and tries to remember not to speed. His father always took a sadistic kind of pleasure in pulling him over.

“I don’t think I ever said thank you for the whole saving my life repeatedly thing.” Stiles hesitates, because that wasn’t exactly a real ‘thank you’ either. “So, y’know, thanks,” he says.

“Yeah, okay,” Derek says gruffly. Stiles glances at him and nearly wraps his jeep around a tree because holy shit, Derek Hale is smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEADBOARD WAS THE WORD I COULDN'T THINK OF


	3. Maybe We're Just Playing House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is absolutely no point to ~~anything I do~~ this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'Playing House' by Active Child
> 
> I'm sorry for the lateness, it wasn’t a writer’s block, I just really wanted to keep this under four chapters (didn't work) and I didn’t want it to seem rushed or awkward. Forgive me, darlings.
> 
> I literally have another 5k written, gonna post it soon  
> I'll check this over again after I get back; taking bff #66 out for her birthday

Teaching Derek how to wash his own clothes proves difficult. Stiles wasn’t expecting it to be this hard, but apparently using a washing machine doesn’t come naturally to werewolves. Who would’ve thought.

Stiles sighs when he sees that Derek is pouring too much detergent in the washer. Again.

He yanks the bottle out of Derek’s hand and shoots him an exasperated look. “The fuck is wrong with you? How have you not learned how to do this shit? I had to learn as soon as I was old enough to reach the fucking buttons.”

Derek shrugs, giving off that I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it vibe that Stiles isn’t used to getting from him anymore. It’s not as if he and Derek braid each other’s hair and tell each other secrets, but Derek hasn’t clammed up on him like this in a while. Actually, Derek is quite fucking chatty for all of the monosyllabic, mostly grunted conversations he’s had with Stiles in the past.

It makes him wonder just how lonely Derek really is. Must be pretty damn lonely if he’s willing to talk to _Stiles_.

“Derek,” Stiles says warningly, pressing the issue even though his gut is telling him to let it go. He ignores it. What the fuck does his gut know, anyway.

Derek sighs and reluctantly meets Stiles’ gaze. “My mom always washed my clothes…before. And then Laura.” Aaand now, they’re both dead. Way to go, Stiles!

Stiles holds back the sympathetic grimace, knowing that Derek would hate his pity. “How were you keeping your clothes clean, then, if you weren’t washing?”

Derek shifts his feet, rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Kept buying new ones.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles groans. _“That’s_ why you have so many goddamn clothes. And here, I thought you just really liked shopping or something.”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, no. I fucking hate shopping.”

“You and me both, dude. You and me both.”

-

Stiles goes back to the laundry room about an hour later to get his and Derek’s clothes out of the dryer and finds his father standing in front of it, staring blankly at a pair of jeans he’s pulled out.

They are not Stiles’ jeans.

Crap.

He chuckles nervously. “Heyyy, Dad,” Stiles says brightly. “You washing today, too?”

His father nods absently. “Needed a jacket, whose pants are these?”

“MINE.” It comes out too loud and his father’s gaze snaps to his, eyes narrowing. “Those are mine!” Stiles repeats, arms flailing. “I’m washing them, aren’t I, why would I be washing someone else’s pants, that’s just crazy talk, ha ha.” Good recover, Stiles. He snatches the jeans out of his father’s hands and gathers the rest of the clothes that his dad has piled on top of the machine and backs away. “Thanks for- yeah. Bye!” He scurries.

“Stiles.”

Stiles’ shoulders slump. Awesome.

He reluctantly makes his way back. “Yeah, Dad.”

“You forgot these.” His dad is holding up a pair of Derek’s boxers and there’s this gleam in his eye that is far too knowing for Stiles’ taste.

Stiles mumbles another ‘thanks’ and walks to his room as slowly as he can manage.

Once he’s safely inside, he immediately dumps the clothes onto Derek, who is sprawled across the bed, sprints to the door and locks it.

“HE’S ONTO US!” he whisper-shrieks at Derek.

“You’re being just a tiny bit dramatic right now.” Derek has dropped the book he was reading and is making what appears to be a make-shift nest out of their clothes. 

“You didn’t see his _face!”_ Stiles paces furiously, wringing his hands. “He knows, ohmigod he’s going to kill you! And then he’s going to kill _me!_ And then he’s going to throw us both in jail!”

Derek exhales heavily as if Stiles is testing his patience. “Why don’t you just focus on not hyperventilating.”

Stiles gives him his best bitch-face and snaps, “Wonderful advice, Derek, I see a promising future in therapy!”

Derek laughs and it still catches Stiles off guard, though he’s hearing it more and more often these days. “Look, there’s no way your dad knows. How would he even find out? He’s not omniscient.”

“You don’t know that!” His dad could totally be omniscient. He always knew when Stiles snuck junk food in the house. The guy had a fucking built-in radar or _something_.

Derek looks at him in exasperation. “Overreact, much.”

“Yeah? Well, what if it’s not an overreaction? What are you gonna do when my dad comes busting into the room and arrests your ass for- for-”

Derek is now completely settled into his little clothes-nest, looking as if he’s ready to take a nap. “For what?” he yawns.

Stiles throws up his hands. “I don’t know! He’ll think of something!”

“Then what do you propose we do?” Derek asks lazily, thoroughly unconcerned.

“I was hoping you’d have an idea?”

Derek pretends to think about it. “You could always introduce us and ask if it’s okay that I stay here awhile,” he deadpans.

“What a brilliant idea. Except for the part where it isn’t, because it’s fucking dumb!”

Derek ignores him and burrows deeper into his nest which is fairly large because it consists of at least three loads of clothes that Stiles has yet to fold.

It looks comfortable as hell.

Stiles argues with himself on why taking a nap right now isn’t the best idea with his dad and his obvious suspicion, and quickly gives in with a groan, “Ugh, who cares. Move the fuck over, I’m taking a nap in your stupid nest, too.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“Kinda is,” Stiles disagrees.

Derek, in a very Scott-like gesture, sets his jaw stubbornly. “You take it back or I’m not letting you in. You can go take your nap on the couch.”

Stiles laughs incredulously. “It’s _my_ fucking bed!”

Derek doesn’t acknowledge that he’s spoken.

“FINE. I would like to take a nap in your lovely, nay- _glorious_ nest, Alpha Sourwolf.”

Derek shoots him a smarmy smile and makes enough room for Stiles to squeeze in besides him.

“You do realize that you’re a wolf, not a bird, right?” Stiles grumbles as he climbs in.

“Shhhh,” Derek is already more than half-asleep.

Stiles thinks about kicking him, just to piss him off. He doesn’t, though. The repercussions are definitely not worth it. He sinks into the nest instead, and wolf or not, Derek knows how to build a fine fucking nest. The warm clothes are like _heaven_.

-

A week later, Stiles can officially put training Derek Hale to wash his own clothes on his list of accomplishments. It had cost him a lot of blood, sweat and tears, but by God, he’d done it.

Stiles’ dad is still working a lot, too much probably, but Stiles is hardly ever lonely anymore. Derek is shaping up to be a good, not-quite friend, maybe roommate works? He’s still a cynical dick, but he has his moments.

He’s discovered that Derek _does_ in fact have a sense of humor, though if you aren’t looking for it, it’s easy to miss. His humor is of the dry, witty sort. Stiles is secretly pleased that they’re similar in that respect; Scott never was too good with banter.

Stiles tries harassing Derek into talking to his pack, but Derek says he wants nothing to do with the ungrateful little fuckers. Quote unquote.

Stiles is working on it.

-

“Ugh,” Stiles falls onto the bed next to Derek. Coach Finstock had barely let the lacrosse team out of practice. Something Greenberg had done had pissed him off and Coach had dragged him to his office to yell at him or something, giving Scott and Jackson the run of practice until he returned. Only he hadn’t returned until nearly seven.

Stiles would like to take the opportunity to point out that not everyone is a super-strong werewolf, okay.

Derek sniffs at him and makes an odd face. “Maybe you should take a shower.”

“Rude,” Stiles mumbles.

“I’m not trying to be, your scent is just really strong right now,” Derek says, picking his words carefully.

“Alright, _Fido,”_ Stiles forces himself up on shaking arms and grabs some boxers from a drawer and shuffles to the bathroom.

He’s not wearing a shirt when he comes back, it had seemed like too much effort at the time. He catches Derek looking at him and it makes Stiles feel odd. His heart’s beating too fast and he’s pretty sure he’s blushing. He’s on the brink of realizing something that’s probably important, but he forgets about it before his head even hits the pillow.

-

Derek is acting strange when Stiles wakes up and he thinks maybe he said something weird in his sleep. It doesn’t take him long to start acting normal, though, so Stiles is pretty sure whatever he did wasn’t that big a deal.

-

Stiles finally gets Derek to agree to stop ignoring his puppies, (but he makes them suffer a bit longer because he’s a dick like that).

Isaac nearly yanks Stiles’ arm off when he tells him the good news. It’s kind of sad, and it also hurts, but more in the physical sense than the emotional.

The entire pack goes to Stiles’ after school, including fellow pack humans Danny and Lydia.

It’s not pretty. They nearly break Stiles’ house.

After they leave, with plans of meeting again the next day, Stiles tells Derek he needs to find another place to hold their werewolf powwows.

The place that Derek finds is even more decrepit then the last one, but hey, it’s better than nothing. That’s what he tells Derek anyways when he gives Stiles the grand tour.

He looks so proud of himself, Stiles doesn’t want to steal his thunder.

-

He and Scott manage to work things out when Scott finally turns up on his doorstep and they have an epic screaming match on the front lawn, followed by manly sobbing and even manlier hugs.

“If you two are done making a scene,” the sheriff drawls from the doorway, “I’ve made enough pancakes to feed China.” Which is perfect, because that’s just enough for them.

Maybe. Stiles has always eaten a lot and Scott eats even more since he started going furry.

But then there’s Derek and Derek eats a shitload. He’d probably take the term, ‘passive aggressive’ to another level if he knew Stiles didn’t save him any pancakes. Stiles would have to make him some more later; there was no way Scott was going to leave any extra.

Scott catches his arm before they step through the door “Is Derek here?” Stiles shakes his head. “He- Isaac and Jackson told me that he was staying with you, but I didn’t believe them.” He smiles dopily. “It all makes sense now.”

“What does?”

“Why Derek was so pissed! He broke my fucking jaw!”

Stiles blinks. That is…some pretty serious stuff.

He covers up his surprise by pretending to scrutinize Scott’s face. “The good news is you’ve managed to retain your perfectly imperfect jawline.”

Scott gives him a wounded look.

“Don’t worry, buddy. I still find it sexy,” Stiles waggles his eyebrows.

Scott beams at him and slings an arm over his shoulder, and they join Stiles’ dad in the dining room.

Stiles plays back what Scott had said about everything making sense now. He doesn’t get it because how does Derek living with him explain Derek getting mad enough to break Scott’s jaw? And over _Stiles?_ It made no sense at all!

He has a hard time concentrating on his meal.

-

Isaac lets it slip that Derek’s called a meeting, _a meeting that he hasn’t told Stiles about_.

Not surprising, Derek always tries to leave him behind.

He finds Derek just as he’s about to leave, Derek watching warily as Stiles walks around the Camaro and gets into the passenger seat. “Heya, fuckface!”

“Can I help you,” Derek asks flatly.

“Nope.” Stiles fastens his seatbelt.

Derek stares at him.

Stiles waves his hand forward. “Onward, good sir.” 

“You. Are. _Not._ Coming.”

Stiles makes a grumpy face and mimics him, “Yes. I am.”

“Get the fuck out of my car, Stiles.”

“Nooope.”

“We are not having a repeat of last week, Stilinski. I will forcibly remove you from this vehicle if I have to.” He was referring to last meeting when Stiles had decided to jump between two extremely angry werewolves. It had worked but only because Derek himself had stepped in and nearly torn Scott and Jackson apart.

Derek had been really pissed off with Stiles and the pack had booked it, leaving Derek to tear Stiles a new one. Derek had yelled at him for a long time.

Stiles winces. “Yeah, that won’t happen again,” he says. “Lesson learned, let’s go.”

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” Derek growls. “You’re not going to the fucking meeting. No.”

“So help me, I will stop feeding you,” Stiles tells him, because Derek likes food and Stiles is not above holding food hostage.

Derek grimaces. “No, you won’t.” Stiles stares at him.

“God, you’re infuriating!” Derek starts the car and Stiles does a victory dance. “Whatever, you’re the one that said you weren’t pack, I don’t know why you always insist on coming along.”

Stiles rolls his eyes as he taps out a message to Scott telling him they were on their way. “I only said that because I thought it was true.”

A muscle jumps in Derek’s jaw. “Who says it isn’t.”

Stiles smirks. “Scott and his broken face.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?” Derek’s cheeks are definitely looking a little pink. Almost like he's embarrassed or something, but why would he be-

Aaand it clicks.

“You were totally protecting my honor,” Stiles realizes.

“Don’t be stupid,” Derek protests weakly.

“Yes, yes you _were!”_ Stiles yells, shaking a finger at him. “Like you were a wolf in shining armor and I was a motherfucking damsel in distress!”

Derek makes this strangled noise and Stiles is pretty sure he might be having a stroke. “No.”

Stiles clasps his hands together and swoons. “My hero!” 

“Stop that.”

Stiles gives him a serene smile. “Make me.”

Derek grumbles under his breath and ignores Stiles the rest of the drive.

-

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, Dad?” He’s bored as hell, Derek is off with his puppies again. Stiles would be out there with them, but he’s not too fond of running for miles through the forest after Coach has just made him run suicides all afternoon for accidentally knocking over his precious Greenberg. For all the shit Coach talks to the kid, he seriously fucking coddles him.

“C’mere for a second.”

Sounds ominous. “What’s up, Pop?” he asks carefully, following his dad’s voice. He finds his father in his bathroom staring at…

Oh.

“There are two toothbrushes, here.”

Stiles tries to shrug like it’s not a big deal. “And?”

“Why are there two toothbrushes, Stiles?”

Stiles rolls his eyes as if his father is being ridiculous. “It’s just my extra, Dad. You’re supposed to change them out every couple months, you know,” Stiles wiggles his fingers, “Germs.”

His dad isn’t buying it. “Uh huh. And the beard trimmer?”

“Uhh, that was a gift. A gift from a good friend that I cannot use yet because-”

“Because you have no facial hair,” his father says.

“It’s a growing-into gift, Dad. Jeesh,” Stiles laughs, aiming for care-free, coming off hysterical instead.

“A used growing-into gift?” 

“Maybe I use it for my-” Stiles’ father puts a hand up to cut him off when he starts gesturing towards his pants.

“Stop. Just-” His father shudders.

That should teach him for asking all of these unnecessary questions.

“Why are you even-” He changes his tone at his father’s sharp glance, “I mean, what brings you to my bathroom, Dad?”

His father shifts guiltily. “Looking for some q-tips.”

Stiles looks towards them where they’re sitting on the shelf. Right on top. There’s no way his dad hadn’t seen them.

He grabs them and wordlessly hands them over.

His dad takes the box and sets it on the counter. “So,” he begins. Stiles cringes. “Anything you want to tell me, son?”

Stiles thinks about what Derek said, about telling his father and introducing him properly and asking if Derek can stay awhile, and he almost does it, but decides against it. He doesn’t want to chance his dad kicking Derek out.

He shakes his head slowly. “Nah, I’m just beat from lacrosse, think I’m gonna take a nap before dinner.” Stiles gives him a small smile, and backs away feeling immensely guilty.

“Right.” His dad looks a bit disappointed, but nods as if he’d been expecting that. “Well, make sure you tell Mr. Hale that I expect him down for dinner, too.” He walks past a shell-shocked Stiles and heads downstairs.

“Wh- How-?” Stiles gets out, stumbling after his father.

His dad gives him a stern look. “I am offended that you’d think that you could get away with harboring a known criminal in my own house without my noticing.”

Stiles raises a skeptical brow. He doesn’t doubt his father’s investigative skills, but he and Derek have been pretty careful. It’s unlikely that he just figured it out, unless he actually is all-knowing. Perish the thought.

“One of my deputies might’ve seen him sneaking through your window when he was patrolling one night,” his father admits sheepishly. “I had my suspicions. The food, all the washing, the clothes that are obviously not yours,” his father ticks off.

“Dad, I-”

“You’re not constantly whining about the dishes, your bathroom is relatively clean, you’re not as mope-y as usual,” he continues.

And he lost Stiles. “Uhm, what?”

“I went by the Hale house, saw that the roof came down.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s why he- he needed a place to stay until he could get it fixed?” Stiles says uncertainly.

His dad nods thoughtfully, “I take it he’s not here right now?”

“No, he has…things he takes care of during the day.”

He nods again, and nudges him towards his room. “Alright, go on and take your nap, I’ll make dinner tonight.”

Stiles gapes. This was not what he was expecting in the event that his father found out that a twenty-something year old man was cohabiting with his teenage son. He’d been expecting rage and his father taking out his shotgun and shooting Derek first, asking questions later, not this strange calm. Either his dad was having a psychotic break or this was a trap.

His father was looking at him curiously, almost…innocent.

Definitely a trap.

Shit.

Stiles nods his head dumbly and mumbles, “Thanks,” before walking slowly up to his room and lying down for a much needed nap. There’s not much he can do for it now anyways. He couldn’t just tell Derek to find someone else to stay with and pretend like none of this had happened. His father wouldn’t let it go that easily.

-

His dad is shaking him awake a few seconds later.

“Dad, you said I could take a nap,” Stiles whines, swatting at his father’s hands and pulling a pillow over his head.

He hears his dad sigh above him. “Stiles, it’s been over an hour.”

Stiles reemerges, rubbing his eyes, and grumbles something about shitty naps being the death of him.

His father chuckles and glances around the room. “Where’s Hale?”

Damn. Not a dream, Stiles. Not a dream.

“I don’t know, he kinda comes and goes. Mostly he just sleeps here,” Stiles says, stretching the truth a bit.

“Huh.” His father mulls that over. “You can’t call him?”

“Uh, no, he doesn’t have a phone.” He thinks. Wait, Derek doesn’t have a phone, right? How has he never thought about this before?

His father seems to accept this. “I suppose I can make breakfast for three in the morning?”

Stiles snorts. “You might want to consider making that a breakfast for ten.”

“He eat a lot?”

“Understatement of the century, Father-mine.” Stiles drags himself out of bed and follows his dad down for dinner.

-

“Derek!” The werewolf nearly topples over when Stiles shouts at him as he climbs through the window.

Derek glares at him. “What the fuck, Stiles? I could’ve died!”

“Save your dramatics for another time, Wolf Man. We’ve got a problem.” Stiles has been sitting here chewing his nails, waiting for Derek and is immensely grateful that he showed up when he did because Stiles was almost out of fingers and he probably would’ve had to move on to his toes.

“Can it wait?” Derek asks, shuffling like a zombie towards the bed, discarding clothes with each step. “I’m kind of fucking tired.” He slumps onto Stiles’ bed, eyes already closed.

“No, it can’t wait, _Derek._ My dad figured it out!”

Derek’s eyes open slowly. “Figured what out.”

“That I’ve decided to commit my life to Jesus,” Stiles says sarcastically. “What the fuck do you _think_ , Derek?”

Derek is on his feet. “Should I- I should go, right? He’s probably mad, I-” He’s rambling and Stiles would be laughing at him because he’s never seen Derek look so _nervous,_ but he’s too busy wondering why he finds a nervous Derek endearing.

Derek pauses long enough to ask, “He didn’t get angry at _you,_ did he?” He actually looks concerned.

Stiles feels a blush threatening to appear, and ignores it. “No, he wasn’t mad. He wants to meet you, though. Officially. Y’know, without the cuffs?”

Derek stares, like he’s not sure if Stiles is fucking around with him. “Really?”

“Yeah, you were supposed to come join us for dinner today, but you didn’t make it back in time, so…”

Derek groans. “Shit. I knew I should’ve come home early instead of helping out that idiot, McCall.”

Stiles blinks. That was the first time he’d heard Derek call this ‘home.’

“It’s cool, we get pancakes out of it.”

“Oh. Well, then spending all night with that dumbass was almost worth it. Your dad’s pancakes are fucking delicious.” Derek crawls back into bed.

-

Stiles wakes to Derek nudging him in the side.

“Mmph, stop it, sleeping.” He hits Derek’s stomach with the back of his hand to get him to stop, opens his eyes to blearily glare at him when he persists. “What the hell, Der-” he follows Derek’s gaze and shit.

His dad is staring at them, face near-purple with fury.

Stiles looks from his father to Derek, hoping that the werewolf will know what to do to diffuse what is very shortly going to be a situation, but Derek doesn’t look as if he’s going to be any help.

Stiles pastes on a smile. “Morning, Dad!” He goes for clueless because he knows what this looks like, him and Derek sharing a bed, Derek in nothing but his boxers. Even if they aren’t in a compromising position, it still looks kind of bad.

At least Stiles is wearing a shirt with _his_ boxers.

His father’s expression darkens. His voice is clipped when he says, “Stiles.” and stalks out of the room.

“I think I’d better go?” Derek looks to Stiles for confirmation.

Stiles nods. “I’ll talk him down, come back later.” Derek dresses quickly and leaves through the window.

Stiles pulls on some pants and follows his father downstairs.

“I thought he was sleeping on your floor!”

His father’s anger is rare and terrifying.

“Uh, no?” Stiles laughs weakly.

“Stiles,” his dad warns. “He’s not threatening you is he?” his father levels him a serious look, the I’m-not-fucking-around-Stiles-don’t-bullshit-me one that he loves so dearly.

“Dad, Derek wouldn’t do that,” Stiles protests.

“Oh, _‘Derek_ wouldn’t do that,’ would he?” He crosses his arms. “I honestly doubt that that man would have any qualms about threatening you, Stiles.”

“You don’t even _know_ him,” Stiles says, angry on Derek’s behalf. He doesn’t know why everyone gives the guy such a hard time. “What does he need to do to get you people to see him as a good person? Walk around town smiling and whistling show tunes? Would that help?” Stiles asks sarcastically.

His father is staring at him like he’s never seen him before. 

“You care about him,” he says after a while, uncertain. “He’s not coercing you into letting him stay.”

“Yes, Dad, Derek’s a good guy,” Stiles says. “And no, definitely not. He wouldn't do something as dumb as threatening the son of the best sheriff in the entire world.”

His dad preens a bit at that. “Damn right.”

Stiles chuckles, his dad’s too easy sometimes.

His dad sighs, the fight gone out of him. “Oh, alright. Call him back for breakfast, then.”

Stiles smiles widely. “So, does that mean he can stay?”

“He can stay,” his father agrees. Stiles makes a manly noise (squeals) and gives him a hug and turns to run upstairs to grab his phone. Scott might be able to get a hold of Derek for him.

“Stiles, you’ll be safe, right?” His dad is looking at him meaningfully.

“Uhm. Safe?” And then he gets it. “Oh, no, Dad!” he says, horrified. “It’s not-”

His father waves a hand. “I don’t want to know. What I don’t know won’t hurt me.”

Stiles can feel his face burning. “Dad-”

“Get.” Stiles has to literally bite his tongue, but he obeys, resolving to clear that up later.

“I’ll be nice to him, don’t worry.” Stiles looks over his shoulder and quirks an eyebrow at his father. “I’ll even show him my gun collection,” he says seriously.

“Yeah, well unless you have some wolfsbane to go along with your gun collection, I think we’re good,” Stiles mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Dad, I just said I’m sure he’ll be really impressed.”

His father snorts. “Of course he will. It’s an impressive collection.” Stiles barks a laugh. “I’m gonna start breakfast. Tell Hale to get his ass down here.”

-

Derek is sitting on the bed when Stiles walks into his room.

Stiles pushes him over and lays down in the space he’s created. “Thought you left.” 

Derek shrugs. “I went across the street, thought I’d stick around in case your dad decided to kill you or something.”

“My wolf in shining armor,” Stiles grins. “Valiantly protecting me from afar.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Stiles scoffs. “I am funny as fuck.” Derek just shakes his head. “So, how much of that did you hear?” Stiles nods towards the door.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you really think I’m a good person or you were just trying to convince your dad to let me stay.”

Stiles dips his head from side to side. “Well, we’re using the term ‘person’ as loosely as possible-”

“Werewolves are people, too, Stiles,” Derek interjects flatly.

“But yes, I do think you’re a good person. Sourwolf.”

“Fucking right, I am,” Derek says gruffly, but he’s smiling again so Stiles thinks that’s okay.


	4. I Think I Like You (Is It Too Late to Change)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what are words even  
> I reserve the right to change this as much as I want after I've slept  
> it's been _days_

Stiles is aware that he may or may not have a teensy crush on a certain surly werewolf.

It had been brought to his attention the last time he’d come home to find Derek napping on his bed. He’d just been smiling stupidly down at the guy (not creepy, not creepy at all) and resisting the urge to poke him awake when Derek had groaned in his sleep and did this little stretch-y, hip roll thing and Stiles, well, Stiles was just lucky he managed to make it out of the room before Derek woke and noticed anything off about his…scent.

Stiles can handle it, though. It's not as if he has any other choice. Not when he can finally say that he and Derek are friends. Kind of.

He doesn't want to ruin all the progress he’d made with him by saying, Hey, dude, I know it’s a little weird, but it seems that I find you insanely attractive and maybe want to have your babies? No big.

Not that Stiles wants Derek’s babies.

He totally doesn’t. Really.

The good thing about that lifetime-long unrequited crush on Lydia is that it’s prepared him for the inevitable rejection.

He’d given himself a talk-through about the many, many reasons Derek was out of his league: fantastical creature of the night, gorgeous, smart—and that one was the most important, because Derek was smart enough to not get mixed in with Stiles and all of his weird—and just better than him in general. Sure, the guy is a dick and more emotionally constipated than a Winchester, but Stiles is in love, give him a break.

The only thing he could bring to a relationship with Derek is irritation and baggage and Derek certainly didn’t need any more of that in his life. Stiles doesn’t know what Derek needs exactly, but he’s pretty sure it isn’t him.

So, he contents himself with looking—because, hey, it would be a waste _not_ to sneak looks at an ass that perfect—and focuses on trying to be a good almost-friend.

The fact that apparently his traitor father fucking adores Derek is not helping with his little problem at all. Especially when Stiles comes home to Derek helping his father cook dinner or talking at the kitchen table or watching tv and drinking beer and they both smile at him and it’s-

It’s too much.

It makes Stiles feel like he and Derek are married and Stiles’ dad is the one guy that actually likes his son-in-law and it makes him want to do dumb things like smooth back Derek’s hair and kiss him on the forehead when he walks by.

Still, it’s frightening how well Derek and his father get along.

Derek had been nervous when Stiles had taken him down for breakfast that first day, but for all his posturing, Stiles’ dad had warmed to him immediately and had Derek talking and laughing like a normal person in no time.

Stiles only feels a little bit betrayed since it had taken him literally fucking _years_ to get Sourwolf that relaxed around him.

But mostly he’s relieved, relieved that his dad likes Derek, that Derek likes his dad.

Even if his dad had drawn the wrong conclusions about them. Yeah, he and Stiles really should have a chat about that.

He’ll get to it eventually.

-

Stiles decides to help Derek manage his puppies in his spare time.

Which turns out to be really fucking difficult because, _Jesus_ , did Derek ever make really horrible decisions when he chose his betas.

It’s the same thing every time. They start out fine, and then someone does or says something and fights break out until Derek uses his Alpha Voice to get them to shut up, but all that usually accomplishes is traumatizing Isaac and Scott starts yelling and calls Derek names for upsetting Isaac and then Stiles has to take over when Derek starts looking as though he’s feeling guilty and it’s just not. productive.

But Stiles is committed.

To the pack. Not to Derek. Of course.

That’d just be weird.

-

Stiles and Lydia come up with the idea of having a pack movie night. Lydia calls dibs on the first one, because it’s _Lydia_ , of course she get's dibs.

The take-out is so good it almost makes up for having to watch The Notebook. Almost, not quite.

Stiles figures it’s okay, though. No one’s really paying attention to the film except Lydia and-

“Scott, you’re not seriously watching this, are you?” Stiles mutters.

Scott looks at him, eyes huge and watery. “But, _Stiles,_ her name is Allie!”

“Seriously, Scott?” Stiles is almost embarrassed for him. Allison had once again broken up with him (to literally no one’s surprise) and Scott was a wreck and obviously taking solace in Lydia and her unsavory taste in movies.

“Allison’s prettier,” Scott informs the room at large, earning several eye rolls and a few groans.

Lydia shushes him, eyes not leaving the screen for a second.

Derek nudges Stiles in the side. “Wanna start cleaning up?”

“Beats watching this,” Stiles agrees, letting Derek pull him off the couch.

They wash dishes while Stiles chatters at Derek. He manages to say something that makes Derek laugh and marvels over how easy it comes now.

Jackson wanders into the kitchen, searching for food. “What's funny?” he asks, rooting through Lydia's fridge.

Stiles repeats what he said and Jackson gives him a weird look. “That wasn't actually funny. I thought it would've been something hilarious if it made Derek laugh.”

Derek scowls a bit. “It was funnier the first time.”

Jackson levels them judgmental looks. “Sure.”

“And he's still a tool,” Stiles sighs when Jackson is safely out of sight.

Derek snorts. “Some things never change.”

-

Stiles doesn’t really know what to with himself now that the last of Derek’s animosity has gone and left something… _different_ in its’ place.

Not that he’s complaining. Different is good, Stiles is an adaptable person, he can work with different.

But still it’s strange to see Derek still curled up in his bed in the mornings, actually smiling when he wakes up and sees him _. Smiling._ Like Stiles is someone he doesn’t mind waking up next to.

It’s really not helping him not like Derek.

He’s even started looking mope-y when Stiles leaves for school. Like someone kicked his puppies or something.

Bad analogy. Derek probably wouldn’t give a flying fuck if someone kicked his puppies. More like someone has stolen his pancakes or scratched his car or something equally offensive.

He still doesn’t have a job, which leaves Stiles wondering how he can afford to exist, but he shrugs it off because Derek can cook and he helps with dishes (seriously, the bane of Stiles’ existence) and not to mention his unparalleled nest-making abilities.

Derek doesn’t seem to mind that his father has started treating him like a second son—he even started _calling_ him son, as if he doesn’t already have a perfectly good one, _hello,_ he has _Stiles—_ giving him chores and sending him on errands, _giving him a curfew_.

It’s ridiculous.

But when the sheriff had told him he needed to make sure he was home before two, Derek had just smiled and said, “Yes, sir.” And, yeah, that’s not such a bad curfew. Derek didn’t have to go along with it, though.

He’s totally trying to show up Stiles for the Son of the Year award.

-

Stiles wakes up after the best nap in the history of ever. Seriously. If Derek wasn’t such an ass, Stiles would totally pay homage to his nest-building skills.

He’s considering resuming his nap when Derek stirs in his sleep and Stiles realizes that Derek’s arm is thrown across his stomach. Also, he’s using Stiles’ shoulder as a pillow which is totally not necessary since he’d commandeered _two_ of Stiles’ pillows when he first started sleeping on the bed.

He should probably wake Derek up or push him off or _something,_ but Derek looks so, well, not peaceful, peaceful probably isn’t even in his vocabulary. But he looks more rested and Derek could use all the rest he can get. A tired Derek is a grumpy Derek, after all. So, Stiles doesn’t protest when Derek mumbles, “Stop thinking so loudly, it’s annoying,” and tightens his hold on Stiles as if the added pressure will make the human’s brain still.

It’s a fine theory seeing as it works.

He feels like there’s some kind of line that’s been crossed, but he doesn’t stop to question it as he settles in and closes his eyes.

-

Stiles wakes up, and this time he can see dim, watery light coming through his window. He groans because, holy fuck, their nap had turned into a ten-plus hour coma. Derek snuffles sleepily next to him.

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles. He might as well go back to sleep, he doesn’t have anything to do today. He tries to roll over and finds that he can’t, Derek’s arm is so tightly wrapped around him.

Dear God. Derek Hale is a cuddler.

He laughs at the absurdity, laughs harder when he thinks about the reactions he’d get from the pack if he told them. He wouldn’t, he’s not actually suicidal, but imagining Jackson’s look of fascinated-horror nearly brings tears to his eyes.

Derek is looking at him through half-opened eyes. “Are you having an episode or something.” 

“You- you’re a cuddler, ohmigod,” Stiles gasps between bouts of near-hysterical laughter.

“Shut up, I am not.” And Derek might sound grumpy, but he’s not letting go.

“It’s okay, dude, your secret’s safe with me,” Stiles tries to keep a straight face, fails when he adds, “Me and the rest of your pack.” He bursts into a fresh fit of giggles.

“You tell them, I’ll rip out your spleen,” Derek growls.

“With your teeth?” Stiles asks seriously.

“That’s it.” Derek shoves him off the bed.

“Oww,” Stiles groans weakly. It hadn’t hurt _that_ bad, but Derek didn’t need to know that.

Derek’s head pops up over him, expression concerned. “Stiles?”

“It’s okay, I think I’m fine. Just can you help me up?”

Derek sighs at him, but holds out a hand.

He gives a satisfying yelp when Stiles yanks him down.

They’re both laughing so hard, Stiles doesn’t even realize that he’d pulled Derek down on top of him. Derek seems to realize it the same time as he does, the laughter dying out but the hint of a smile remaining.

“C’mon, I’ll help you up,” Derek says.

Stiles nods, but his hand is wrapping itself around the back of Derek’s neck without his permission and he’s leaning up and pressing his lips to Derek’s.

Derek isn’t pushing him away. But he isn’t kissing him back either.

Derek isn’t kissing him back.

He pushes Derek off of him and gets to his feet even though all he really wants to do is curl up in a ball and die because god fucking dammit, he _knew_ Derek wouldn’t want him. He’d told himself, and he didn’t _listen._

“What was that for?” Derek asks, voice rough.

Stiles can’t meet his eyes. “Nothing. My bad, man.” He laughs and it sounds fake.

“Stiles-” Derek starts.

“Yeah, I got it.” Stiles grabs the first pair of pants he sees and pulls them on.

Derek catches his arm, but Stiles shakes him off. “Stiles-”

“Don’t.”

“Can we just talk abo-”

Stiles speaks over him, “I’m gonna go to Scott’s.”

He doesn’t turn around when Derek calls his name again, and he doesn’t look up when he’s in his jeep and pulling away from the house even though he can feel Derek staring at him from the window.

-

Scott comes running out of the house to meet him, his question changing mid-word when he catches sight of him. “What hap- _Why the hell are you wearing Derek’s pants?”_

Stiles glances down and oh, well that would explain why they’re falling off of him.

He shrugs.

“Stiles, what happened?” Scott asks worriedly.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to play some Black Ops, bro,” Stiles says cheerfully.

Scott looks at him strangely, but doesn’t ask questions because he knows Stiles better than anyone. He knows that when Stiles wants to talk, he’ll find Scott.

They play for hours, stopping only to raid the fridge and it’s normal, almost as if the last few months never happened. After a while, Stiles gets bored so Scott makes him some popcorn and puts on a movie and they spend the rest of the evening yelling and throwing popcorn at the screen until Mrs. McCall comes home and sees the mess they've made and promptly kicks Stiles out.

Derek is waiting for him when he gets back.

Stiles doesn’t talk to him as he gets ready for bed and it really is like the last few months never happened.

“You, uh, took my pants,” Derek says when Stiles climbs tiredly into bed.

Stiles pointedly turns off his bedside light.

“Stiles,” Derek tries.

“Good night.”

Derek is silent for a while before he says, “Good night, Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t know how he falls asleep.

-

Stiles is being a dick. He knows it, Derek knows it. Christ, his _dad_ knows it, but he just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head and stays out of it, probably thinking that they’re fighting, which they are because Stiles is angry at Derek.

Just not in the way his dad thinks they are. (He catches the words ‘lovers spat’ once when he goes downstairs for a snack and finds his dad gossiping with Mrs. McCall in the kitchen).

Derek had been pretty good with dealing with his anger. For the first few days. And then, he’d started getting angry himself when Stiles didn’t let up, turned everything Derek said into an argument, rolled his eyes when he was speaking at pack meetings, would stop speaking if Derek wasn’t in the mood to fight back and wanted to try and _talk._

And it’s not like it’s Derek’s fault that Stiles is angry. Stiles is angry at himself for ruining their tentative friendship, for showing his hand and letting Derek know that he wanted him.

Well, maybe Stiles is mad at Derek, too, for not wanting him back. But it wasn’t his fault that Stiles had thought maybe he had, just because he was a closet-cuddler and he’d taken advantage of Stiles’ _there_ -ness. Derek couldn’t help that he was beautiful and Stiles doesn’t blame Derek for not wanting him, with his awkward limbs and awkward _everything._

It wasn’t his fault that Stiles thought he had a chance.

-

Stiles gets home late, already angry because of some jag-off running his mouth during practice, and all he wants to do is _sleep._

“Hey,” Derek says in greeting when he walks into the kitchen to grab a drink.

Stiles ignores that. “Where’s Dad?”

“Still at work. He went in a little while ago, said he’d probably be there ‘til morning,” Derek answers. Stiles nods and turns to leave. “What do you want for dinner?”

“I don’t care.”

“We can order pizza,” Derek says. “Or I can make that steak or-”

“I don’t. Fucking. _Care_ , Derek,” Stiles grinds out, trying to leave, but Derek is there blocking his way.

“I’m _trying_ here, Stiles,” Derek says, frustrated.

“That’s  _great,_ Derek,” Stiles says patronizingly. “Now, if you would be a dear and move.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrow at his tone. “I don’t know how this got turned into being _my_ fault when you’re the one that went and kissed me-” Stiles flinches.

“I’m sorry, that’s not what-” Derek starts.

“No, you’re right,” Stiles says. “I am the one that kissed you. Don’t worry, Derek,” Stiles tells him, mouth twitching up into a not quite right smile. “It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.” He shoves past Derek to his room.

Derek follows him. “What do you mean, _mistake?”_

“I mean mistake, accident, blunder, mess-up-” Stiles rattles off for him.

“I get the meaning of the word, Stiles. I’m asking how you kissing me was a mistake,” Derek says flatly.

“It just was, Jesus fucking Christ. Let it go already. It’s not as if you wanted it anyways.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I know that you don’t want me. Can you leave, I want to take a nap.”

“No, I want to talk-”

“Fine. I’ll take my nap downstairs.”

Derek grabs his arm. “Stiles, just-”

“Get the fuck off of me,” Stiles snarls.

“Not until you talk to me,” Derek says.

“You wanna talk about it? _Fine,”_ he spits. “I _like_ you, Derek. I wanted to kiss you so, I did because I have _feelings_ for you. Feelings that you do not return. I’ll get over it. Now that we’re all clear, will you please get the fuck out of my way.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles groans and digs his palms into his eye sockets. “God, just- how much more do you want to humiliate me, Derek? What else do you want me to say? That I want you, that I like sharing a bed with you, that I _like_ that you’re a closet-cuddler, that-”

“Just stop,” Derek says.

“You’re the one who wanted me to talk. What’s wrong, Derek? Am I making you uncomfortable?” he taunts.

“Just stop,” Derek says, but it’s softer this time and he’s leaning down and brushing his mouth against Stiles’ and it’s perfect, everything Stiles had hoped their _first_ kiss would be.

Stiles shoves at his shoulder and breaks the kiss. “What the _fuck_ , man?”

Derek huffs. “I told you, you don’t know what I want.”

“But- you didn’t… kiss me back?” Stiles says uncertainly.

Derek twitches a little. “Uh, you kinda caught me off guard and I was trying to not wolf out.”

Stiles blinks. Oh. “Oh.” Well, now he feels dumb.

Derek quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Oh,” Stiles affirms, dragging Derek’s face back down to his.

-

Stiles doesn’t know who’s more relieved that he and Derek aren’t fighting anymore; him or his father.

Actually, Derek’s puppies are probably the happiest about it.

“Thank _God,_ Derek’s finally off his period,” Erica says. She's sprawled out on one of the couches, the rest of the pack lounging around Stiles’ living room for movie night.

“Yeah, if we had to deal with both of you at the same time, I probably would’ve begged Argent to give me a wolfsbane bullet in the head,” Jackson grumbles. He is also extremely relieved that Derek is no longer running them into the ground, but he can’t just say that. Once an ass, always an ass.

“Which one, senior or junior?” Erica asks with a feral smile. She hasn’t quite forgiven Allison for the whole shooting her and her boyfriend full of arrows thing.

“Senior would be more efficient,” Boyd interjects, “Allison has a nasty habit of leaving her wolves alive.”

And apparently, neither has Boyd.

“Hey, I’m sure Allison is very sorry,” Stiles says, putting a hand on Scott’s chest to stop him before he can attack one of his packmates.

“Yeah,” Scott adds lamely. Allison is still ignoring him, but he hasn’t given up yet.

Stiles gives him a look. “Stop- just leave the talking to me. I’ll call you when I need some muscle.”

“Why call Scott when you have live-in muscle with Derek?” Lydia asks with a sly smile.

Stiles blushes. “Yeah. Uh.”

“‘Just let me do the talking,’” Scott mimics.

“Shut up,” Stiles mumbles.

“Speaking of Derek,” Lydia eyes him, “Why’s he in such a good mood? Did he get laid?”

Stiles flails. “WHAT?” And then Derek walks in carrying ten pizzas and saves him from Lydia’s knowing smirk.

“Oh, thank fucking God,” Stiles breathes.

Derek lifts an eyebrow at him. Stiles just shakes his head and follows him to the kitchen to help pour drinks and grab plates. No one actually uses the plates, but Stiles likes to maintain the pretense of civility.

“Hey,” Stiles says casually, trying not to smile like a huge dork.

Derek leans in and gives him a kiss. “Hey,” he says, and goes back to pouring drinks as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Which, it hadn’t since they are… _whatever_ they are.

And whatever they are includes lazily making out in the morning and cuddling (“I don’t _cuddle_ , Stiles. It's a wolf thing, you wouldn't understand!”) at night and smiling at each other a lot over dinner.

Honestly, Stiles doesn’t know what it means. He wishes Derek would just spell it out for him so that he knows what to expect.

That would be too easy, though, right.

-

“First order of business,” Stiles starts as soon as they’re all gathered and sitting (somewhat) comfortably, “When are we going to fix the roof?”

Derek mimics him, “First order of business: Why the fuck are you even talking?” Scott looks like he’s ready to attack Derek, but Stiles waves him off. He knows Derek’s only fucking around.

“I’m just saying! Your roof needs fixing; you have a pack of able-bodied teenagers…”

“Ooh, Derek, we could totally fix the roof!” Erica squeals excitedly, her packmates nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, we could fix up the entire house and paint-” Isaac begins, but Derek cuts him off.

“No way in hell I’m letting any of you near my house. Especially with power tools. Fuck no.”

“But-”

“I don’t want to hear it. It’s not happening.” Derek looks almost panicked.

“Derek, the house needs to be fixed,” Stiles murmurs, voice gentle. Derek might be making an excellent point about letting these idiots around anything that can cause serious damage, but Stiles can tell that there’s something else that’s left Derek unsettled.

Derek looks at him, eyes full of trust before turning back to the rest of the pack and saying, “Fine, but I’m hiring a contractor.”

Stiles manages to pry his eyes away from Derek and look around. It isn’t until he sees the way everyone is staring at them that he realizes that his hand is wrapped around Derek’s.

Scott is the first to break out of his daze. “But how can you afford to- Ow!” He lets out a yelp when Lydia elbows him sharply in the side.

He lets it drop, and Boyd subtly changes the topic to training.

-

It isn’t until they’re home that it hits him.

Why Lydia hadn’t let Scott finish his question about how Derek could afford to hire someone to fix his house, why Derek had tensed up next to him when the subject was broached.

Eight life insurance policies can probably cover the cost of the remodel several times over.

By the time Derek gets out of the shower, Stiles is sitting on the edge of his bed trying to choke down lungfuls of air.

“Stiles? What happened? What’s wrong?” Derek asks frantically.

Stiles shakes his head numbly, fingers fumbling as he uses the collar of Derek’s shirt to pull him closer until his head is pressed against Derek’s shoulder, saying, “I didn’t realize, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize,” and he isn’t coherent, but he can  _feel_ the moment that Derek understands what he’s attempting to say, in the way his breath leaves him as if he’s been dealt a blow to the chest.

It’s like all his strings have been cut and suddenly it’s Stiles that is supporting Derek. Stiles hauls Derek into bed, only letting go long enough to lay beside him and then Derek buries his face in Stiles’ neck and breathes.

Stiles holds him until his trembling dies out and he falls asleep.

-

Derek jerks awake, snarling.

Stiles’ hands find his while Derek calms himself taking huge, shuddery breaths.

“Dream,” he grunts by way of explanation.

Stiles nods, not really knowing if him babbling at Derek right now would be any help. He stays quiet and waits for Derek to either start talking or fall back asleep.

“It was my fault,” Derek says.

“No, it _wasn’t_ -”

“It was.” Derek’s tone says end of discussion and for once, Stiles lets it drop.

He talks, though, because not talking is difficult for him. He talks about school and about a movie that he wants to see and is going to make Derek see with him whether he wants to or not, about a book he read a while back, he talks about anything and everything until Derek falls back to sleep.

“I wish you knew it wasn’t your fault,” Stiles says wistfully.

Derek doesn’t stir.

-

When he wakes in the morning, Derek is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more later sleep good


	5. This Bed’s Too Big for Just Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you guys better love me, damn it. I stopped in the middle of this really cute fic just so I could finish this shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Can You Tell' by Ra Ra Riot
> 
> I am truly sorry it took me over an entire week to get this up, I just wasn’t feeling it. Be grateful that I didn't put this up two days ago. It was a whole lotta angst at that point
> 
> MISTAKES: I need to know where they are or I die

It’s been nearly a week since he last saw Derek.

And Stiles is fine with that, really.

Really.

So he can’t seem to sleep without the asshole in his bed. It doesn’t mean anything. Stiles had just gotten used to sharing, that’s all.

-

His dad hasn’t mentioned Derek’s absence at all and Stiles would’ve thought it strange, but then he remembers that he doesn’t care and shrugs it off, just like he does the looks of concern Scott’s been giving him.

He’s been shrugging off a lot of things lately.

Not school work, though, because school work is important.

School work leads to good grades and good grades lead to scholarships and scholarships lead to college. Preferably one that is a considerable distance from Beacon Hills.

For a while, Stiles had his heart set on Berkeley. It was a good school and close enough that it wouldn’t take too long if he wanted to drive down and see his dad. And Scott, of course, even if he had been acting like a total butt ever since he’d developed his furry little problem.

Stiles would miss home, but he knew that his dad would be proud and that any residual sadness would be overshadowed by the joy that would come with Stiles not being there to constantly nag him about his eating habits and force-feed him healthy food.

But then _Derek_ and suddenly Stiles didn’t want to leave at all, had been willing to stay even if Derek wouldn’t ask him because he’s horrible with using his words.

Stiles just feels kind of sick when he thinks about staying here now.

So, he works hard and pretends not to hear when any of his friends talk about their latest pack meeting or mention Derek’s name.

And if he’s not his normal, overly-talkative self, well, that’s just because he’s busy focusing on school.

-

Stiles doesn’t get why everyone’s tiptoeing around him like he’s fragile. He’s _fine._

Alright, he’s been a little moody since Derek left _without a fucking word—_ not that Stiles cares!—but that’s just normal teenage stuff, right? He totally doesn’t care. Everything is a-okay in Stilesland.

He still can’t sleep, but that’s probably normal, not being able to sleep until he randomly loses consciousness for a blessed hour or two here and there. It happens to everyone, probably.

Scott climbs through his window and immediately tells him, “Dude. You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks, buddy,” Stiles says sarcastically, moving over to make room on his bed.

“I’m allowed on your bed again? Sweet!” Scott burrows beneath his covers excitedly.

Stiles eyes him. “You’re not going to have another wet dream whilst in my bed, are you?”

Scott makes an offended face. “I can’t believe you’re still holding that against me! That was _years_ ago, Stiles!”

“That was _two_ years ago, Scott! It took me _weeks_ to get the smell of Scott-spunk out of my blanket! _Weeks!”_

“And I said I was sorry!”

“Sorry doesn’t cover the hours I spent in therapy! You know what, I changed my mind. Get off my bed.” Stiles attempts to push him off, but Scott only digs in his heels, refusing to budge.

“No. You already let me in. No take-backs!”

Stiles relents with a sigh. “I must be tired.”

“You look it.”

“Again, thank you, Scott.”

Scott laughs and then goes serious. “You can tell me what’s wrong, you know.”

Stiles thinks about denying it, but this is Scott, his very best friend in the entire world.  Who is also a werewolf that can hear and / or smell when he’s lying.

“I know, dude. We’ll talk, just- not yet, okay?”

“Okay.”

They lay in silence for a while, and Stiles nods off.

He startles awake when the bed shifts.

“Derek?” Stiles hates the hope in his voice.

“No, it’s Scott,” he says, strangely gentle.

“Oh.” Stiles looks at him. “Where are you going?”

“Well, you were sleeping, so,” he points his thumb towards the window.

“Right,” Stiles says, disappointed.

“Unless you want me to stay?”

Stiles doesn’t even bother trying to hide his relief. “Yeah, that’d be…good. Yeah.”

“Cool,” Scott says, already lying back down. “I’m tired as fuck. Don’t really feel like walking all the way home.”

Stiles snorts at that. Scott had to be the bummiest werewolf alive.

“G’night, buddy.”

“Night,” Scott says around a yawn.

Stiles sleeps.

-

Scott starts sleeping over and hanging out like old times after that, and Stiles starts sleeping more regularly. Part of Stiles’ brain is dancing around screaming _Fuck you, Derek Hale!_ (the immature part) because Stiles doesn’t need him to sleep and the other part is angry that it’s Scott that’s sleeping next to him. Stiles tries not to examine that part too closely.

“Here again, Scott?” Stiles’ dad asks, having just got off of work and found Scott and Stiles, vegging out on the couch, surrounded by wrappers and empty tubs of ice cream.

“Rude,” Stiles says, not taking his eyes off the tv.

His dad harrumphs and walks to the kitchen muttering something that sounds a lot like, “Derek never left trash all over the living room,” but Stiles ignores that.

“What’s wrong, Dad? I thought you liked this movie!” They’re watching Titanic -cough- again -cough- which is totally acceptable since he and Scott are both nursing broken hearts and nothing helps the healing process like tearjerkers and ice cream.

“I did,” his dad says. “The first time.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “What are you tryna say?”

“I’m _saying_ that this is the fifth time I’ve seen you two watching this movie in the last three days.”

Stiles stares at him, not seeing the problem. “And?”

His dad throws up his hands in exasperation. “And I’m not even _here_ most of the time, Stiles! God knows how many times you’ve watched it while I was at work!”

“There’s nothing wrong with repeatedly watching a good movie!” Scott nods in agreement.

“I’m going to call the cable company and demand they block that blasted movie,” his dad threatens.

Stiles shrugs and goes back to his ice cream. “I’ll just buy it.”

“No, you will not- Stiles! Are you listening to me?”

Stiles is, in fact, _not_ listening.

“I’ll never let you go Jack,” he whispers while Scott cries and gestures at the screen with his spoon.

 _“And she lets him go!”_ Scott wails.

Stiles sobs. “I _know!”_

“Oh, for the love of-” the sheriff snatches the remote and turns the tv off. “Scott, go home.”

“But, Dad, Scott’s staying here tonight,” Stiles reminds him, panicked. He can't sleep without Scott and Stiles _needs_ his sleep, okay.

“Scott always stays here,” his dad grumbles. He sighs. “Fine. Scott can help you clean up this mess then.”

“But-”

“And then, you can make dinner, as you’ve failed to do for the last week.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Now, I think I’ve been pretty lenient considering everything with Derek-” Stiles tenses and his father’s tone softens, “We don’t have to talk about it right now, son, but I don’t want you staying in, being mope-y all the time. Watching the Titanic so much-” he shudders, “It’s not _right_.”

Stiles’ shoulders sag. “I know, Dad. I know.”

“We’ve reached an understanding, then? No more moping?”

“No more moping,” Stiles agrees. “I was getting sick of that movie anyways,” he lies.

Scott’s eyes go huge. “No more Titanic?!”

The sheriff claps him on the shoulder. “You’ll get over it.”

“But- but-” Scott sputters and watches him leave.

“Don’t worry, buddy, we’re gonna buy it,” Stiles mutters under his breath.

Scott grins.

-

Scott starts getting a little flaky again. He still comes around during the day and stays with Stiles at school, but he’s spending his nights somewhere else now.

Stiles isn’t sleeping again.

He isn’t surprised, though, especially when he sees the hickeys on Scott’s neck after he comes sneaking out of an empty classroom. Allison’s probably counting to thirty before she makes her own exit.

“Stiles!” Scott squeaks, pawing at his shirt in a futile attempt to cover up the already-faded bruises.

“Scott,” Stiles says drily.

“It’s not what you think.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Stiles says in the same dry tone.

“Really-”

“Look, it’s okay, it was only a matter of time before you and Allison got back together, right?”

Scott’s eyebrows are knitted together in confusion. “Allison?”

“Yeah, y’know, your _girlfriend,_ Allis-” and Isaac walks out of the classroom, discreetly readjusting his pants and looking smug.

“That was- Oh, hey, Stiles!” he says awkwardly and now he and Scott are both blushing and Stiles is laughing at them.

“How long has this been going on?” Stiles wonders.

“It’s new,” Scott admits.

“New, huh?” He claps Scott on the back. “And not wasting any time, I see. That a boy, Scotty,” he says approvingly.

“You’re okay with this then?” Scott gestures between him and Isaac.

Stiles snorts. “Course, why wouldn’t I be?” Scott and Isaac both look vastly relieved. “But, seriously, why didn’t you tell me, jerk?”

“I was going to, I swear! It’s just- you’ve been-” Scott shrugs and waves a hand at him, “and I didn’t want you to think that I was going to start ditching you all the time.” The ‘like I did with Allison,’ goes unspoken, but Stiles gets what he’s trying to say.

Stiles tackles him into a hug. “No worries, buddy.” Scott laughs and returns the hug enthusiastically. Stiles waves Isaac, who is standing awkwardly off to the side, over. “Come on, big guy, there’s room for one more.” Isaac rolls his eyes, but he goes anyways.

“Don’t go getting any ideas, now. I know you would love to have some Stiles in your Scott-Isaac sandwich, but-”

Isaac cuts him off with a look. “No.”

“You can’t deny you want some of this-”

“No.”

“Scott, tell Isaac to stop being mean!”

-

He sees Derek about two weeks after he left.

Stiles recognizes him immediately, though all he can see his back. He knows the exact moment Derek realizes he’s there, can tell from the way he tenses and drops the package of meat he’d been looking at.

Derek doesn’t look at Stiles as he walks away from his cartful of groceries and out the store’s exit.

Maybe it’s for the best. Stiles wouldn’t want Derek to think that his exhausted appearance was because of him.

Stiles finishes shopping and when his father asks him what’s wrong, Stiles lies and tells him he’s just tired, and shuts himself in his room.

He sleeps on the floor.

-

The pack has been whining about wanting to have a barbecue for the last two days. It seemed like the moment one of them stopped nagging Derek about it, another one took up the torch.

He wants to strangle whichever genius came up with the idea.

Derek had thrown his phone at a tree after the twentieth barbecue-centric text of the day, the sound of shattering plastic and glass extremely satisfying.

And then his betas destroyed his temporary peace by coming to look for him once they discovered they couldn’t get a hold of him via phone.

They wouldn’t leave.

So, Derek was forced to leave _his_ house, well, ware-house (the warehouse he is staying in and, coincidentally, the pack’s meeting place) and gather supplies for the stupid barbecue.

It was going well, surprisingly. Derek hasn’t gone into town for a while, and the change of scenery was nice. He’d already grabbed all of the chips and sodas and snacks a werewolf could eat and was looking through the meat section when he heard that familiar heartbeat.

It was the most difficult thing Derek had ever done, walking out of that store without looking back to see Stiles, just one look to see if he was any different, if he was doing okay.

He knew if he did, he would crawl back and beg Stiles’ forgiveness.

-

Lydia grabs Stiles by the arm and hauls him to a vacant bench the minute he steps foot on campus.

“Spill.”

He plays dumb. “Spill what? Where’s a spill?” He looks down at his clothes for a non-existent stain.

Lydia is giving him a small, _evil_ smile when he finally meets her eyes. “Something happened with you and Derek. He’s living at the warehouse and you’re both acting weird.”

Stiles gets to his feet. “Nothing happened, Lyds. Can I go now?”

“You sit the fuck down.”

Stiles sits.

She levels him a dangerous look. “Tell me. What. Happened. Now.”

That’s pretty much all it takes for Stiles to tell her everything and really, Stiles doesn’t know how she managed to do it. Really.

After he’s finished, Lydia gets to her feet and says, “Okay.”

“‘Okay?’ That’s _it?”_ Stiles asks disbelievingly.

She pats his hand sympathetically. “Oh, honey, that’s not even _close_ to being it,” she promises. “Just give me a couple days,” she says, leaving Stiles sitting there, lost.

“A few days for what?” he calls after her.

Lydia turns and shakes a finger at him. “Never you mind!”

Stiles watches her stalk towards Isaac, who’s talking to one of guys on the team, and drag him off to talk. Well, not so much talk. Isaac spends most of the conversation nodding and looking terrified.

Stiles can relate.

Lydia leaves with an extremely satisfied smile.

Stiles groans internally.

This will all end in tears.

-

Derek stays away from Stiles. Or he tries to. It’s hard, and the three weeks he’s spent away from Stiles hasn’t made it any easier.

The breaking point comes when he overhears Scott and Isaac talking about Stiles after a pack meeting.

“I’m just really worried, he smells…off. And he still looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks and he’s so fucking _quiet_ and-”

“I get it, you’re worried,” Isaac interrupts drily. There’s a dull _thud_ that’s probably Scott punching Isaac in the arm, and Isaac laughs and says, “Why don’t you just ask? You’re with him all the time.” Derek feels a pang of jealousy in his stomach before he reminds himself that he was the one who chose to leave and carve Stiles out of his life.

“He won’t talk to me about it,” Scott says, frustrated. “I’ve tried, Danny tried, Lydia tried.” Derek bites back a growl, because Lydia might be pack and Derek might have grown attached to the… _forceful_ human, but he doesn’t want her anywhere near Stiles, not when he can’t be. “I think she got something out of him, but she’s not telling. Hell, even _Jackson_ tried.”

“What about Erica and Boyd?”

“Erica threatened to push him down some stairs if he didn’t tell her what’s eating him, but that didn’t really work and Boyd just stared at him for a long time which actually did get him to start talking, but not about what’s really bothering him. It was just some Stiles-babble about circumcisions and penile functions,” Scott groans. “Is it weird that I’ve missed hearing him talk that much that I nearly enjoyed that incredibly awkward conversation?”

“Definitely,” Isaac says.

“I’m just really worried about him,” Scott says quietly. “I’ve been a shitty friend ever since-” he pauses, probably gesturing, “-but Stiles is my best friend and I know that something big is bothering him.”

Isaac sighs. “I’ve already tried to talk to him,” he admits. “And…”

“And?” Scott prompts.

“I see what you mean. He’s too reserved and it’s freaky as hell and we should probably call an exorcist or a shaman or _something_.”

Scott’s quiet for a brief moment and then he gasps. “You think Deaton can do an exorcism?” he asks excitedly. Derek groans internally. He’ll never understand what the hell Peter was thinking when he bit Scott.

“I was joking, Scott.” Isaac pauses and Scott must be wearing his confused face because Isaac feels the need to reiterate. “That was a joke.”

“Oh.” They’re quiet again. “So, you don’t thi-”

“No, I don’t think that Deaton will agree to perform an exorcism on Stiles, Scott,” there’s a hint of exasperation creeping into Isaac’s voice now.

“What’re you two lovebirds talking about?” Lydia cuts in.

Lovebirds?

Isaac coughs awkwardly and Derek’s guessing it’s Scott that’s making that weird choking sound. Interesting.

“Well?” Lydia asks impatiently.

“Stiles,” Isaac says. “Scott’s worried.”

Lydia clucks sympathetically. “It’s probably that girl again.” What girl?

“What are-? OW!” Scott yelps.

Isaac jumps in, voice strangely high, “Oh, yeah. You’re probably right.”

“You guys are weird,” Scott mutters. “OW! What was that for?!”

“That’s no way to talk to your betters,” Lydia sniffs dismissively. “Anyway, has Stiles said anything new about her?”

“Her who?”

“The girl he’s been _talking_ to?” She says it in a way that suggests that Stiles and this girl aren’t just talking.

“Oh, uh, yeah. He said-”

Derek doesn’t hear the rest of Isaac’s sentence. He’s on his feet and in his car before he knows what he’s doing.

Just gonna talk to him one last time, Derek tells himself as he drives home. Just one last time.

-

“You think it worked?” Scott asks worriedly, watching Derek’s taillights disappear down the road.

“We can only hope after you nearly dropped the fucking ball!” Lydia punctuates by punching Scott in the stomach. Again.

“OW! _Fuck!_ I’m sorry! No one told me that you were going to throw in that bit about the girl!” Scott whines.

“There were two parts to the plan, McCall. Only _two,_ ” Lydia fumes. “One: make Derek think that Stiles is depressed to weaken his resolve. Two: make Derek jealous. Not that hard!”

“Sorry, Lydia,” Scott says sheepishly.

“And you!” she whirls on Isaac, who cringes and looks at his feet.

Lydia levels them one last exasperated look and leaves.

“She scares me,” Isaac whispers to Scott.

Scott pulls him close. “I know. She scares us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh unfortunately there is going to be one more chapter but I swear I'm almost finished with it and it should be up within the next two days. Saturday's my best guess. but I don't actually know what day it is right now because it's 8 AM and I haven't slept in a few days. The chapter's relatively short so yeah (laughed when I went back and read this paragraph full of LIES)


	6. Heed That Feeling In Your Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek goes back to talk to Stiles “one last time” and doesn’t actually try all that hard to leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from ‘History’s Door’ by Husky which is one of my favoritest songs at the mo’
> 
> Here lies the death of my first fic (well, second fic but first finished, you know what I mean) Thank you guys for being so awesome and being patient with me while I dealt with some personal issues. Like laziness :D 
> 
> I need to sleep but I'll check for mistakes later and this is a warning that some things probably don't make sense. It's because I literally had over 15k for this chapter and I edited out a LOT so there might be things. Feel free to point out mistakes. You'll have my undying gratitude

Stiles is having a shitty week.

More like year. Or life.

His never ending streak of shitty-ness continues when Greenberg falls on him during practice and nearly crushes him to death.

Worst part? Coach had run over, bypassing a feebly twitching Stiles, and helped Greenberg to his feet, asking him if he was okay as if _Greenberg_ was the one that nearly died! He then proceeded to yell at Stiles, again as if Stiles was the clumsy bastard that fell while running over a relatively flat surface—which, admittedly, he _has_ been known to do, but he hadn’t _this_ time—and made him do laps until the end of practice.

Which ran late.

Stiles is about seventy-five percent sure that Coach kept them late on purpose.

Fucking Greenberg, man.

“Why the fuck does Coach baby Greenberg? I thought he hated the kid!” Stiles whines to Scott, who is not so much listening as nodding at Stiles absently and staring at Isaac while he changes his clothes with an expression Stiles wants to immediately forget and never see again.

“Oh, Coach definitely doesn’t hate him,” Jackson says enigmatically, smirking as he walks to his locker.

“What does that mean?” Stiles calls after him. Jackson doesn’t answer. Probably because he’s a douche.

He turns to rant at Scott about Jackson’s douche-y-ness, but he’s still staring at Isaac in a way that is borderline predatory and ugh, _gross_ -

“Dude, could you maybe _not_ eye-fuck Isaac while I’m standing here?”

“No.” Scott doesn’t break eye contact with Isaac’s ass, because of course the guy is bent over tying his shoes right now while Stiles is trying to have a conversation with his best friend.

Stiles sighs heavily. He is a saint. He should be inducted into sainthood for all of the shit he puts up with.

He changes the subject, in hopes that it’ll be enough to distract Scott and that the look on his face will cease to exist. “So, what are we doing tonight?”

“Uh. What?” Scott answers, and obviously the distraction tactic didn’t work because he’s still blatantly staring at Isaac’s ass.

And again Stiles says _gross._

“Seriously, Scott?” Stiles groans. “I’m sure the staring is making Isaac uncomfortable, too!”

Isaac straightens and walks over, smiling impishly. He wraps his arms around Scott’s waist and says, “No, not really.” Scott grins and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Oh, God, you guys are so cute I’m going to hurl,” Stiles says. “Literally. I’m fighting the urge to puke all over your shoes right now.”

He’s happy for them, really, he is.

It’s just he’d really rather not see all of the leering and the groping and the I’ve-seen-you-naked smiles.

Scott rolls his eyes at Isaac like, _you see what I have to deal with?_  and Isaac just shakes his head and says, “He’s _your_ best friend.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Stiles says sternly. “I’ll repeat myself since your attention was focused on Isaac’s... _ass_ etts-” Stiles grins, all  _see what I did there?_ “-when I asked earlier. Plans for tonight?”

Scott gives him an apologetic look and Isaac seems to have developed a sudden fascination with the floor. “We have- pack stuff. I thought I told you?”

Stiles catches himself starting to make a face and forces himself to stop, smiling brightly. “Ahh. Well. I needed to catch up on my homework anyway,” he says.

He hears Jackson snort from across the locker room, but neither Scott nor Isaac acknowledge the lie.

Stiles takes a moment to be grateful that Scott is his best friend and not Jackson. He doesn’t know how Danny does it. Forget Stiles,  _Danny_ should be inducted into sainthood.

Scott is looking at him worriedly when he comes back to himself. “Stiles, are you-”

“I’m fine.” Stiles claps him on the back. “See you later, Scotty!” He winks at Isaac. “Don’t have him home too late, now.”

His lighthearted façade drops as soon as he’s inside his jeep. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face and wonders if his chest will ever stop hurting at the thought of Derek- _his pack_ meeting without him.

-

Derek means to wake Stiles as soon as he climbs through his window, but Stiles looks so worn-out, Derek can’t bring himself to do it.

He also means to _not_ stand at the foot of Stiles’ bed, staring at him while he sleeps for what is probably an inappropriate amount of time, but that’s what he’s doing when Stiles wakes up and flails so hard he falls out of bed with a hissed, _“Jesus fucking Christ!”_

Derek feels the corners of his mouth quirking upwards, but the smile fades before it’s fully formed.

He holds a hand out to help Stiles up because it’s the polite thing to do, not because Derek has been craving that contact and misses the feel of Stiles’ skin. Of course not.

Stiles glares at the proffered hand until Derek lets it fall to his side and angrily shoves himself to his feet. “What the fuck, Hale?”

So, they’re back to that. He really shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he was the one that left.

Derek opens his mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. He can feel Stiles anger from where he’s standing. He doesn’t know why he came here. Just because he was jealous of some girl. He has no right to be jealous, he has no right to _Stiles_.

Stiles curses and sits down on the edge of his bed, covering his face, elbows digging into his legs. “Why-” Stiles breaks off and lets out another impressive stream of cursing. “You can’t.” Stiles lets his hands drop and seems to give up trying to speak.

Derek doesn’t know where his words went.

He’d driven here hell bent on getting Stiles back. But now that he’s here, all he can remember are the reasons he left in the first place.

Stiles is watching him warily now, his shoulders slumped, hands clasped tightly together in his lap.

“What are you doing here, Derek?” Stiles asks tiredly.

I don’t know. He glances around the room. “My stuff?”

Stiles points to the closet.

Derek walks into Stiles’ closet where (surprisingly) most of his things still are and comes out holding a duffel bag full of clothes. He purposely leaves a few things and it’s dumb, but it comforts him to know that his scent will still be here even when he’s gone.

That is until Stiles throws the rest of his shit out. He’ll probably have a bonfire in the backyard and dance around the flames. Derek doesn’t know whether that makes him want to laugh or die.

He sets the bag on the ground. “I, uh, heard something about a girl,” Derek says awkwardly, not really knowing why he brought it up. It isn’t any of his business if Stiles is seeing anyone.

“Girl?” Stiles asks, confused.

Derek rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. You know. Girlfriend. Yours.” Nice articulation, Hale.

Stiles is staring at him intently and Derek feels his face heating up, the scrutiny making him ramble. “Scott and Isaac were talking about it with Lydia-” Stiles groans and holds a hand up, _say no more,_ at the mention of the redhead. Strawberry-blonde, whatever.

“Fucking Lydia,” he mutters, pulling his phone out and angrily tapping on the keys.

Derek finally allows himself to scent the air, relieved—and confused—that Stiles smells the same, if a little tired and angry. And sad. There’s a lot of sad there. 

But there’s nothing to indicate that he’s… _seeing_ anyone.

Derek would be able to tell.

“So, I take it there’s no girl,” Derek says.

Stiles snorts without much humor. “No girl. Lydia’s idea of a joke, I guess.”

It changes nothing. Derek has to put an end to this and let Stiles move on if he hasn’t already. Closure and all that.

He doesn’t want to.

Derek watches Stiles huff at his phone in response to whatever reply he’s gotten, presumably from Lydia, and waits until Stiles tosses his phone carelessly towards their pillows- _his_ pillows to start talking.

“Look. Stiles,” Derek begins and Stiles tenses, his face closing off. “It was wrong of me to leave without telling you. I really do appreciate all that you- and your father have done for me.”

 “You’ve both been very… helpful,” Derek adds and an almost startled laugh bursts out from Stiles.

 _“Helpful?_ Is that what you’re calling it?” Stiles gives him a wide smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Derek doesn’t like it. He resists the urge to cross the room and sit beside him, lean into his space like he would have before. Instead he tucks his hands in the pockets of his jacket and shifts his feet. “Stiles, that’s not what I meant-”

“No, no need to explain, Derek. Good to know that your tongue in my mouth was therapeutic.”

Derek winces. “Stiles, I know that-”

Stiles is suddenly furious. “Know what? That I’ve been going _insane_ , wondering what the fuck I did to make you leave without even a, ‘Hey, Stiles! So, I know that I’ve been crashing here for a while and we’ve gotten pretty close, like, close enough that I feel comfortable cuddling with you and using you as a pillow, but I’ve got to go. Oh, and thanks for all the making out! That was cool.’”

“I’m sor-”

“No!” Stiles is up and in Derek’s face, snarling. “Fuck you, Derek. Fuck you and your stupid face and your stupid house and your stupid four leather jackets, which, _seriously,_ no one needs that many leather jackets, you freaking douche bag!”

Derek waits for Stiles to continue laying into him, but apparently that’s all he’s getting.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says quietly, swallowing past whatever’s stuck in his throat, making it tight. He doesn’t want things to end like this. He knew he couldn’t keep Stiles, but he wanted to try and salvage their friendship at the very least. Going by the anger in Stiles’ stance/expression/ _scent_ that probably isn’t going to happen.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just wanted to talk. I- I missed you,” he admits quietly. He looks at Stiles and tries to give him a sincere smile, not sure if he pulled it off.

Stiles groans and throws up his hands. “Goddammit! Don’t _look_ at me like that, Derek! You can’t just come here and- _Ugh!”_

Derek frowns unhappily, but nods. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

Stiles grabs his arm. “That’s not what I’m _saying,_ Derek,” he says, exasperated. Derek doesn’t meet his eyes, but he stops trying to leave. “You can’t just come here after you _left_ without a fucking word and make that face like _I’m_ the one that’s breaking _your_ heart.” His eyes are shining and he angrily rubs at his face and flushes, embarrassed.

Derek lifts a hand to place it on his shoulder, or maybe on his cheek, but just manages to stop himself. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Christ, he’s like a broken record.

Stiles catches the hand that’s still awkwardly hanging in the air and holds it to his face. The amount of tension that leaves the both of them is ridiculous. Stiles presses a warm kiss to the palm of his hand and-

He can’t do this.

He wrenches his hand out of Stiles’ grip and picks up his bag and tries not to flinch at the hurt expression on Stiles’ face.

“Derek-”

He moves towards the window-

“At least use the front door, moron,” Stiles snaps.

And Derek freezes mid-step, stunned, and then laughs, his head falling back. He hears a reluctant chuckle escape Stiles.

And then he’s not laughing anymore, he’s dropping his bag and walking back to Stiles, putting a hand on either side of his face and kissing him, his tongue sweeping into Stiles’ mouth before he stops himself and shakes his head.

“I can’t.”

He tries to pull away, but Stiles stubbornly fists his hands in Derek’s jacket and hauls him back in for another kiss, this one all desperation and hitched breaths.

“Stay,” Stiles whispers, keeping his hold on Derek’s jacket even though he isn’t trying to get away now.

“Stiles, we can’t.”

Stiles sets his jaw. “Yes, we can.”

 _“I_ can’t.”

Stiles lets go of him and crosses his arms. “Well, why the fuck not, Derek?”

Derek knows he has an answer for that, but it’s eluding him at the moment.

Oh no, wait. It’s coming back to him. It’s because Stiles deserves more than Derek and his anger and the danger he brings around just by _existing._ He doesn’t say that, though because maybe Stiles would realize he was right if he does and he’s a selfish bastard.

Stiles sighs when Derek doesn’t answer and scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought you didn’t want me. I thought that was why you left.”

Derek’s eyes widen. “No.” He never wanted Stiles to think that. He thought Stiles _knew._

“Don’t make that face. I see that’s not why you left now.”

“I do want you Stiles.” Always will. “It doesn’t change anything.” And Stiles must finally hear him because his expression crumples.

“Don’t leave.”

Derek’s voice is pained, “Stiles, I have to.”

“No you don’t. Just- Stay. Okay? I won’t make it weird this time, Derek. You can stay here and it’ll be fine. We don’t have to be together. We can just be friends. Just stay,” Stiles pleads.

Derek stares at him for a while. He heard every single lie- ‘It’ll be fine.’ Lie. ‘We don’t have to be together.’ Lie. ‘We can just be friends.’ Lie. -and yet…

“You want me to stay here,” he says slowly. Stiles nods vigorously. “We can be…friends.”

Stiles breath catches, but he nods again, though with noticeably less enthusiasm.

“It won’t be weird?”

Derek gets distracted by Stiles’ mouth and when he looks back up, Stiles’ face has gone smug, like he smells an easy victory and Derek has to bite back a groan. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“And your dad will be fine with me staying here again,” Derek says skeptically. After I took off and hurt his only child, he doesn’t add.

Stiles’ reply is immediate. “My dad loves having you here, you know that.” Not an actual answer, but they’ll get back to that one because Derek is weak and he’s actually considering coming back here.

Not considering; he’s already made up his mind and judging by Stiles’ smirk, it’s not just Derek that knows how this is going to end.

“Where will I sleep?”

“Here, where else?” Stiles asks innocently.

Derek narrows his eyes. “On the floor?”

“What kind of host would I be if I made a guest sleep on the floor?” Stiles’ smile is positively evil.

“Then _you’ll_ be sleeping on the floor.”

“Why does anyone have to sleep on the floor?” Stiles asks. “My bed’s plenty big enough for the two of us. As you undoubtedly already know,” he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Stiles,” Derek warns.

“What! It was just an observation.”

“Keep your _observations_ to yourself, brat.”

Stiles makes an offended face. “Oh, now I’m a brat?”

“You’ve always been a brat. I’m just a good person that keeps _my_ observations to myself.” Stiles flips him off. “See, now you’re unhappy. If I had _kept it to myself,”_ Derek emphasizes, “You wouldn’t be upset. See how that works?”

“You’re such a dick.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out.

“Real mature, Stiles,” Derek says, fighting a smile. He missed this. He missed talking to Stiles.

“Yeah, well, you love me anyways.”

Derek stares at him, and Stiles flushes.

They speak at the same time.

“I didn’t-”

“Stiles-”

They stare at each other until Derek hears the familiar sound of the sheriff’s cruiser pulling up the front drive.

“Your dad’s here,” Derek tells him, feeling a twinge of regret.

“Perfect timing,” Stiles says, running out of the room.

Derek shakes his head and follows him down.

-

“Dad! What’re you doing here?”

His dad quirks an eyebrow at him. “Well, this _is_ my house.”

Stiles backpedals. “No, it’s just, I thought you were working today?”

“I am, I just came home to- uh, I left some important paperwork that I need back at the office.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, paperwork his _ass._ “You came to see if Scott was here, didn’t you?” he says.

The look on his dad’s face confirms Stiles’ suspicions.

“Ohmigod! He breaks _one_ little lamp-”

“And eats all our food, and leaves a mess wherever he goes and buys you that _damn_ movie after I expressly forbid-”

“I wouldn’t say you forbid it so much as made it clear that you strongly disapproved of-”

“Derek! Good to see you, son,” the sheriff interrupts Stiles mid-sentence, which, RUDE, to address the prodigal son.

Stiles watches in amusement as his father gives Derek a hug and starts clucking at him like a mother hen. “How have you been? _Where_ have you been? Please tell me you’re staying. Scott is eating me out of house and home.”

“Dad, Derek eats more than me and Scott _combined,”_ Stiles reminds him.

“Yeah, well Derek also restocks the fridge and cleans up after himself,” his dad shoots back.

Stiles has to give him that one. “Point.”

His dad goes back to ignoring him and mooning over his would-be son. “Where are you staying? Not at that house, I hope. Whatever Stiles did, please accept my apologies on his behalf and come back.”

Stiles sputters indignantly while Derek fidgets, expression guilty. “Stiles didn’t do anything wrong, Mr. Stilinski.”

His dad looks at Derek like he doesn’t quite believe it. “You sure?”

“Dad!”

His dad’s eyebrows shoot up, saying, _what?_ like he’s not standing there, insulting Stiles! Stiles who is his _son._ You’d think that seventeen years of awesomeness and love would _mean_ something to a guy.

“Right here, Dad. Right here.”

His dad smiles sheepishly and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like an apology.

Stiles does not accept.

His dad rolls his eyes. “You’re staying, right?” he asks Derek.

Derek takes a breath, steeling himself. “I’d like to, if that’s okay with you, sir.”

Stiles’ dad answers without hesitation. “Of course, son. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.” He smiles widely, probably refraining from doing a cartwheel because to him, more Derek means less Scott.

Stiles makes a mental note to invite Scott over more often. And Isaac, too. He bites back a smile at the thought of his dad having to put up with Isaac and Scott cuddling it up on the loveseat.

The amount of sweet from those two is enough to make anyone ill.

“So, does this mean you two have patched things up?” his father asks, gesturing between them, completely unaware of Stiles and his nefarious plans.

Stiles doesn’t miss the quick glance the werewolf gives him before answering. “We’ve decided to try being friends. Just friends,” Derek says.

Not if Stiles can help it.

Stiles keeps that to himself though and nods his agreement with Derek.

His dad looks at them skeptically. “Uh huh.”

“No, Dad, seriously! We’re friends now!”

“Right. Well, I’ve made sure that my house is still in one piece and more importantly, that Scott’s not here-” Stiles makes an offended sound on Scott’s behalf- “-so, I’m going back to work now. You two have fun being ‘just friends,’” and Stiles can practically _see_ the air quotes. “Oh,” he stops at the front door and turns, “And be safe.” He levels them a pointed look and leaves.

“So, _he_ totally didn’t buy that,” Stiles says casually, moving closer to Derek, but trying to be sneaky about it.

He must’ve overestimated his ability to sneak, because Derek is eyeing him warily and his hands are fisted at his sides like he’s trying not to run away.

“Well, it’s true… so.”

“Oh, yeah no. Totally true,” Stiles pretends to agree even though he _knows_ that Derek can tell he’s lying.

Derek sighs and it sounds so miserable, Stiles’ resolve weakens.

He doesn’t want to make Derek miserable, he just wants to be with him. Stiles knows that Derek wants to be with him, too, he could tell by how easy it was for him to talk Derek into staying and the way Derek looked at him, the way that Derek has _always_ looked at him. The only thing that’s getting in the way of that is Derek himself.

He puts a hand on Derek’s arm and finds that Derek is trembling.

“Stiles-” Derek starts, but Stiles shakes his head and lets his hand slide over Derek’s shoulder to his neck and presses his lips to Derek’s.

Derek kisses him back without thinking, and pulls back, tensing. “I thought you said we could be friends,” he says.

Stiles nods and presses a kiss to his chin. “We can. We _are.”_

Derek shudders when Stiles nips at his jaw, snakes an arm around Stiles’ waist like he can’t help himself, his hand warm on the small of Stiles’ back. “Friends don’t do _this_ , Stiles.”

“They’re really missing out.” Stiles murmurs, dragging his mouth down to Derek’s neck.

Derek huffs a laugh and groans when Stiles’ teeth sink into his skin, sucking a bruise into his throat. “T-this is a bad idea.”

“Hmm?” Stiles hums absently. “Yeah, maybe.” And he continues mouthing at Derek’s skin and sneaking a hand under Derek’s shirt, trailing warm fingers across his stomach like he doesn’t care that Derek is trying to warn him.

“Stiles, I’m _serious.”_

Stiles leans back and raises his eyebrows. “So am I.”

Derek growls in frustration and releases his hold on Stiles. He stalks away and turns around and leans into Stiles’ space. “You don’t get it, Stiles. I’ll _hurt_ you. That’s what I _do_.”

Stiles’ eyes are big and his heart’s beating fast, but there’s not a trace of fear on him, no lie when he says, “I don’t believe that.”

Derek steps back, finds a wall to lean against for support. “You don’t believe me? Just look at my family,” he says bitterly.

Stiles is angry now. “You keep saying shit like that, but it’s not your fault, Derek. It’s not your fault that some psychotic hunter _murdered_ your entire family. How could it be? That doesn’t even make sense!”

“So, you _don’t_ know,” Derek chuckles mirthlessly. “I was fucking Kate Argent.”

Stiles freezes, and Derek has to look away before he says the next bit. 

“That’s how she got all the information she needed to take care of my pack,” he says quietly. “I told her.” He hadn’t known what she would do with the information, of course he hadn’t, but it didn’t change the fact that it was his actions that killed his family. His mother, his father, his brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins. All dead. All his fault.

When he finally looks back up, Stiles’ mouth is open in horror and fuck, that was the look Derek had been afraid of.

“Oh my God.” Derek prepares himself for the onslaught— _how could you do that to your family, it really_ is _your fault they’re dead—_ but Stiles is in front of him, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck. “Oh my _God._ That fucking _bitch.”_

Wait, what.

“She was like _forty_ when Peter killed her! What kind of sick _fuck_ fucks a kid to-” Stiles’ voice cracks and he clings tighter to Derek and if he wasn’t a werewolf, he’d probably be dying of oxygen deprivation. But because he _is_ a werewolf and doesn’t actually mind Stiles clinging to him like an octopus, he settles his hands hesitantly on Stiles’ waist, not sure why he’s still allowed this. “Jesus fucking Christ, and you-” Stiles makes a pained noise and mumbles something about, “bringing that bitch back just so I can kill her _myself.”_

“Stiles, I _killed_ my family,” Derek says because Stiles obviously isn’t getting the message here.

Stiles pulls back and holds Derek’s face between his hands and looks at him seriously. “It wasn’t your fault.” Derek starts to protest again, and Stiles covers his mouth with his hand. “No. It was not your fault. That was all K- _her.”_ He seems unable to say the name. “She used you, tricked you into giving her enough information to track down and kill your family just because they were werewolves.” The disgust in his voice is palpable, but isn’t directed towards  _him._ And that, that is more than Derek was hoping for. “It wasn’t your fault, Derek. It’s not your fault that you were a good person and you didn’t automatically assume she had a hidden agenda, and it’s not your fault that you trusted her.” Derek lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and Stiles’ thumb strokes the skin of his cheek almost lovingly. “I’m only sorry that she turned you into someone that doesn’t trust anyone.”

Derek really doesn’t deserve him.

“That’s not true,” Derek says. “I trust you.” And he does, has for a while now.

A small, pleased smile plays around the corner of Stiles’ mouth.

“Well, obviously you’re an idiot. Look at me!” he says, gesturing to himself.  _“No one_  should trust me.”

Derek laughs, it’s rough and strange when his chest feels so raw, and says, “I couldn’t help but notice your use of the past tense when you said the thing about me being a good person.”

“Well, you’re kind of a dick now, so.” Stiles shrugs.

“Oh.” Derek frowns at his feet and tries to look pathetic.

He’s picked up a few things from McCall, he’s sad to say. The only person Scott’s puppy eyes _don’t_ work on is Lydia. He’s pretty sure it’s because Lydia doesn’t have a soul. There’s actually a bet going in the pack. (Derek’s money is on unaligned succubus).

“Hey, no! No sad face!” Stiles says frantically.

Worked like a charm.

“I like dick! I mean, I like dicks in general,” Stiles corrects himself. Derek raises an eyebrow while that sinks in, and Stiles turns bright pink. “No! I meant I like  _your_  dick.” Stiles flails a little bit, his face going a darker shade of red. “I mean- I like you even though you're a dick.” His eyes widen in horror. “I mean! I like you, all dick-ish behavior aside!”

He nods, like he’s congratulating himself for finally getting it right and then groans and covers his face with his hands.

“I’m such a  _spaz.”_

Derek pulls his hands away from his face. “I like spaz. If it’s any consolation, I like dick, too. Well, maybe just yours,” he tacks on, like it’s an afterthought.

Stiles clasps a hand to his chest, scandalized. “Was that a come-on, Mr. Hale?”

Derek quirks an eyebrow at his choice of words and Stiles flushes again. “Well, if that wasn’t clear enough for you maybe I should try something a little more forward, like,” Derek pauses, leaning into to suck Stiles’ earlobe into his mouth. “I know someone that  _you_  can come on.” Stiles bites his lip and groans. “To.” Derek adds, his smirk growing.

“How did you make that hot? That was  _terrible!”_  Stiles whines, burying his face in Derek’s shoulder.

“That was _brilliant,”_ Derek argues.

“No.”

“Yes, it w-”

Apparently Stiles decided that the most effective way of getting Derek to shut up, is to attack his mouth.

Derek likes how Stiles thinks.

They manage to get to Stiles’ room— _their_ room, Derek corrects himself smugly—before they start shedding their clothes, which is good, because Derek doesn’t plan on either of them leaving bed for a while.

Derek rubs his nose against Stiles cheek, drags his lips across flushed skin, seeking Stiles’ mouth and Stiles just goes with it, lays back and lets Derek take his sweet time learning his mouth.

Derek leans back from where he's kneeling between Stiles’ thighs, taking a second to admire the view of Stiles spread out for him, all lean muscle and soft skin and so perfect it hurts, and sees that Stiles is stroking himself over his boxers and _shit._

Derek licks his lips, “Yeah, fuck. Let’s- Let me- Can I watch you? I wanna see you-”

Stiles eyes widen when he understands what Derek is asking him for. “You want me to jerk off for you?”

“Yeah, please,” Derek’s voice is hoarse.

Stiles covers his face with his arm as he cups his dick to keep from coming from that alone. He’s trying not to make it too obvious how close he is already, but he rolls his hips up into his hand and makes an embarrassing noise because he’s so far gone that he can’t help himself.

“Fuck,” Derek groans, and he sounds _wrecked._

Stiles takes his arm off his face, and Jesus Christ. Derek’s pupils are blown and he’s fucking shaking, trembling like he’s trying so hard not to reach out and touch Stiles. Derek sees him looking, but doesn’t take his eyes off Stiles’ hand, the one that’s trying to jerk his cock through his boxers.

“C’mon, Stiles,” Derek rasps. “Take it out for me.”

Stiles moans and shoves his hand in his boxers and pulls out his leaking cock, starts jerking off frantically.

Derek puts a hand on his thigh, and squeezes gently. “Slower. I want to- I want this to last.”

Stiles does, too, but Stiles is seventeen and a virgin and with Derek watching him like that, like he wants to fucking _devour_ him? It’s a miracle he’s lasted as long as he has.

He comes hard, his eyes rolling back and fluttering closed.

He starts to apologize for being so fast when he comes down, but he opens his eyes and Derek is biting down on his lip and squeezing his cock through his boxers, eyes bleeding red.

“C’mere,” Stiles slurs, come-dumb, reaching out and pulling Derek down on top of him. He’s still hazy from his orgasm, but all he wants is for Derek to come, too. Like now.

He lifts his head, looking for Derek’s mouth and Derek gives it to him, licking into his mouth while he grinds down on Stiles’ thigh and makes these perfect sounds. Stiles pushes Derek’s boxers down his legs and grips his ass because  _fuck_ , that’s a beautiful ass, and holds Derek closer while he falls apart on top of him, streaking Stiles’ hip and stomach.

Derek collapses on him, and they’re both sweaty and covered in cum and it’s gross, but Stiles kinda loves it, especially the small, wounded noises Derek is making as he catches his breath.

“St-Stiles?” Scott squeaks, one foot in the room, the other hanging over the windowsill.

Fucking werewolves.

Stiles meeps and Derek grabs a blanket and covers up Stiles’ exposed skin _(protecting his lady’s honor,_ Stiles thinks hysterically) and growls at Scott until Scott jumps back out of the window, yelling about his eyes.

 _“WHY DID YOU LET ME_ DO _THAT?!”_ Scott wails, somewhere outside of Stiles’ house.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tightly. “Please, tell me your entire pack isn’t outside of my house right now.”

“Oh, but they are,” Derek says, sounding suspiciously smug.

Stiles opens an eye to check and yep, Derek has a huge, smug smile on his face. “May I ask _why_ you look happy about my best friend walking in on us?”

“Now, they know you’re _mine,”_ Derek growls, taking Stiles’ mouth with his own.

Stiles is totally on board with this. Forget the fact that there are probably eight teenagers standing around in his front yard. Stiles gives no fucks.

 _“Oh, Alpha, my Alpha!”_ Erica sing-songs, _“Let down your hair!”_

“Fuck off!”

And that seems to hold them off—for a few seconds—but then Stiles hears a loud chorus of, _“Derek and Stiles, sitting in a tree!”_

Stiles groans. “Ohmigod, what are they, _five?”_

_“F-U-C-K-I-N-G!”_

“Just ignore them,” Derek says, slotting their mouths together again.

A rock flies through the open window and lands about two feet away from the bed.

 _“That was the warning shot,”_ Jackson calls.

“They’re not going to leave us alone,” Stiles says ruefully, smacking Derek on the ass and pushing him out of bed.

“We’re going to have to get dressed, aren’t we?” Derek asks, scowling.

“They’re _your_ pack,” Stiles mutters, irritated, pulling Derek’s shirt over his head.

“Our pack,” Derek corrects and yeah, that sounds about right.

-

A pack full of _dicks_ is what their pack is.

They stuck around, all eight of them, making jokes at Stiles’ and Derek’s (mostly Stiles’) expense.

“Why are you guys even here?” Stiles asks for the thousandth time.

“Scott was worried that the plan didn’t work,” Lydia explains.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Oh, yeah. The plan. The one where you made Derek think that I had a girlfriend,” he says flatly. “Great plan.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Lydia points out.

And okay, yes, it did, but that wasn’t the point. The point is, he doesn’t actually know what the point is considering Lydia’s plan got him and Derek back together and bonus sexy times.

Stiles would really like to go back to sexy times with Derek.

That was fun.

He contemplates dragging Derek back up to his room, stealthily, of course, and glances around the room, wondering if the pack is distracted enough now that they could get away with it.

Scott is huddled in the corner of the living room looking traumatized (“They were so _naked,”)_ while Isaac strokes his hair and murmurs soothingly, and Erica is lying down on Stiles’ couch with her feet in Boyd’s lap, talking animatedly while Boyd smiles at her, their fingers entwined and God, why does Stiles know so many cute couples. He’s going to develop a complex.

Jackson had made a really weird comment about Stiles not smelling as good as he used to and sat himself in the arm chair in the corner of the room and had then proceeded pout for the remainder of the evening.

Stiles does not get Jackson.

Danny (and Stiles takes back every good thing he said about Danny ever. Stiles now knows why he and Jackson are best friends: Danny is actually _Satan)_ has taken it upon himself to tease Stiles mercilessly about his “incestuous relationship” and at one point actually called Derek, Miguel, but Derek had just stared at the human until the smirk had died on his face and he walked away, looking shaken.

Before Stiles can start to look around for Derek, he’s at Stiles’ side, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles in a calming manner, and is telling everyone to, “Get the fuck out, you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

The pack goes cheerfully, giving them hugs and air kisses in Lydia’s case and Stiles pretends not to hear Scott when he leans in real close to Derek on his way out (almost too close, really) and whispers, “If you hurt him again I will rip your dick off and feed it to you. You will eat every bite,” Scott promises, eyes flashing.

But they’re gone, they’re _finally_ gone and Stiles is on Derek even before the door closes, wrapping his legs around his waist and letting Derek carry him back upstairs.

Derek sets him down and crowds him up against the wall, ripping off his clothes while Stiles clumsily tears at Derek's because fuck clothes, fuck clothes _so hard_. He’s been waiting to get his hands back on Derek for _hours._

Okay, like one hour, but _fuck,_ it was hard acting like a civilized person that can stand being in the same room as their boyfriend without wanting to hump them like a dog in heat.

Ha. Dog in heat.

Werewolf humor.

He isn’t quite sure when he started grinding down on Derek’s hips, is barely aware that he’s moaning something that sounds a lot like, “C’mon, Derek, _please,_ I want it so bad, _need_ it,” into Derek’s ear while Derek sucks what’s probably going to be giant fucking bruise onto his neck.

“Yeah?” Derek asks, sliding his hand down from Stiles’ hip to grope his ass, fingers brushing teasingly over his hole through the fabric of his boxers.

“Oh,  _fuck_  yeah,” Stiles breathes, grinning when Derek immediately scoops him up and says, “As you wish,” with a small smirk—and _swoon_ , was that a Princess Bride reference? Best. Boyfriend. _Ever_ — leaning down to lick back into his mouth, tongue sliding in like it belongs there.

Derek somehow gets him naked and on the bed, though Stiles stopped being helpful a while ago, and takes Stiles into his mouth, brings him off swallowing around his cock all while working him open. Stiles doesn’t know where Derek got the lube, but his ass is thankful because the push of that first finger had been uncomfortable as hell.

Maybe he has a lube-fairy, Stiles thinks in  his dazed state. Derek drips some more lube down his ass, and Stiles shudders at the feel of it, too cold and at the same time, incredibly hot.

 _“Do_ you have a lube-fairy,” Stiles asks almost accusingly.

Derek quirks an eyebrow, but seems unwilling to look away from where two of his now-slicked up fingers are fucking into Stiles. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Stiles admits.

“Sorry, to disappoint you, but I do  _not_  have a lube-fairy,” Derek says, the sides of his mouth curving upwards.

“Dirty liar,” Stiles mutters, but lets it go because Derek’s fingers are starting to feel good and at the same time not enough. “More?” he asks hopefully and Derek obliges, giving him another.

Stiles’ dick makes a pathetic attempt to stand at attention when one of Derek’s fingers brush against something magical and holy-  _“Fucking_   _shit_ , do that again.” And Derek does, relentlessly, until Stiles is sobbing and tells Derek to just, “Do it already,  _christ.”_

Derek drops a kiss to his shoulder and leans back on his heels, lubing up his cock and pressing forward, rubbing his dick against Stiles’ hole, which is amazing and also a bit daunting, but, “Wait, wait, wait. What about the condoms? I know what happens when people have sex without condoms, Derek,” Stiles says, flailing limbs nearly smacking Derek in the face. “I’m too young to get pregnant!”

Derek pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Stiles.”

“Condoms, bro. Papa didn’t raise no fool.”

Derek leans in and kisses Stiles quiet, not letting up until Stiles’ mouth is shiny and red and they’re both breathing hard.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Stiles huffs. “You don’t have anything, do you?” he asks bluntly. “It won’t change the way I feel about you,” Stiles hastily assures him, expression strangely soft.

And Derek is glad about that, really, he is. But. “Stiles. Werewolf.”

“Yes, werewolf,  _supposed_  mythical creature. Astonishingly high population in California. What about them?”

Derek groans. “Ass.”

“Hey, you love my ass.”

Derek looks him over appreciatively. “That’s not the only thing I love about you.”

Stiles blushes, dick twitching because Derek is giving him that look again, the one that says he wants to eat him up.

“So, what about werewolves?” Stiles prompts, face still burning.

“Werewolves don’t get diseases. And you’re the only person I’ve ever- besides-” Stiles reaches up and runs his fingers through Derek’s hair. “But we can-”

“No, no, it’s better this way anyways,” Stiles says, tugging Derek’s face down to his and wiggling his ass against Derek’s dick.

Derek thrusts his cock between Stiles’ ass cheeks, dick catching on his rim, and Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s back, trying to get him closer and making a pathetic sound when Derek pulls back, looking down at him seriously.

“Are you sure about this?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and says, “Yes, Derek, how many times do I have to say it? While we’re young please,” and pulls Derek’s laughing mouth down to his while Derek lines up and nudges at his hole and pushes in excruciatingly slow.

“Seriously, Derek, just fucking-” and Derek bottoms out with a groan.

Derek’s head falls to his shoulder. “Fuck,  _Stiles.”_

“Yeah, just- give me a second,” Stiles huffs, annoyed that Derek had given him what he wanted and his ass was still protesting.

The uncomfortable feeling subsides and Stiles moves his hands to Derek’s hips.

“Move.”

“What’s the magic word,” Derek says.

“Now.”

Derek considers it. “Nope, that’s not it.”

The broken sound Derek makes is totally worth the flare of pain he feels when he grinds down on Derek’s cock.

Stiles looks up at him through his lashes, saying, “Now?” and doesn’t try very hard not to smirk at Derek and his suddenly-labored breathing.

Derek groans in defeat. “You’re going to be like this forever, aren’t you?”

“Like what?” Stiles asks, thrilling at the prospect of Derek and forever.

“Challenging,” Derek answers, finally,  _finally_  moving.

“I thought you liked a challenge,” Stiles teases.

Derek’s eyes darken. “Love it.” He rolls his hips slowly, and the pace is nice, but Stiles really just wants to be fucked into the mattress.

He even tells Derek so.

“How’d I know you’d be bossy?” Derek asks, voice strained.

“Thought about this a lot?” Stiles snarks.

“So much,” and then he’s fucking into Stiles hard enough that he’s pushed a little further up the bed with every thrust until Stiles is bracing one hand against the headboard, Derek’s cock dragging in at just the right angle. Stiles lets his free hand drift from Derek’s hip to his ass—seriously, Derek’s ass is the best things  _ever—_ and holds him closer while Derek mouths at his neck, his ear. “You’re so fucking tight around me, Stiles- It’s like you were  _made_  for me-” Stiles turns his head and crashes their mouths together and Derek is swallowing down his cries as Stiles comes messily between them without a hand on him and Derek isn’t much better off, not with the way Stiles is clenching around him, the sounds escaping his mouth.

Derek buries his face into Stiles’ neck, smells so good, and Stiles’ fingernails dig weakly into his back. “C’mon, Derek, come for me,” he slurs, and Derek does.

Stiles pets his hair and runs a hand down his back while Derek’s breathing returns to normal, pushing Derek off of him once his dick has gone soft and burrowing into his side, feeling Derek’s cum dripping out of his ass.

It’s surprisingly pleasant.

Derek slips an arm around his shoulders, and presses a kiss to his forehead. Stiles sighs contentedly.

“That was-” he says.

“Yeah,” Derek says, “It was.” They lay in silence for a while, Derek lazily drawing patterns on Stiles’ arm.

“I can’t believe we wasted the last three weeks,” Stiles blurts. “We could’ve been  _fucking!”_ Stiles looks so annoyed it nearly makes Derek laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. “About…that.”

Stiles pats his stomach comfortingly. “I understand why you left now. Kind of.”

“I’m sorry. I was a coward.” Stiles’ arm tightens around his waist. “I was afraid you’d realize I wasn’t worth it,” Derek says quietly.

“That’s not gonna happen, Der,” Stiles says firmly.

Derek shakes his head and smiles sadly. “You’re young, Stiles. You can’t know that. You might not always want m- this.”

Stiles cups his face and says, “I’ll always want you, Derek,” his heart completely steady.

“I’ll always want you, too,” Derek says and Stiles grins and presses a soft kiss to his mouth.

“You’ll stay, then?” Stiles asks, his eyes hopeful.

“I’ll stay,” Derek says. “Until the house is finished.”

Stiles frowns. “When’s that gonna be?”

“I don’t know. A couple of months maybe.”

Stiles face falls further. “Oh.”

“Or I could stay until you graduate,” Derek backtracks.

“That’d be good,” Stiles says with obvious relief.

“We could let the pack stay at the house for a while so that it’s not like I spent a bunch of my family’s money on the remodel for nothing,” Derek says.

“No. No fucking way,” Stiles says immediately.

“Why not?” Derek asks, amused.

“‘Cause then when  _we_  want to move in, they’ll think that the place is theirs and we’ll have to have, like, a big werewolf showdown and I’ll end up with my eyebrows shaved and sorry, dude, I’m not a werewolf okay? I can’t rock the no-brows thing!”

Derek looks torn between amusement and confusion. “Wait, when are  _we_  moving in?”

“When you put a ring on it,” Stiles says.

“I’ll put a ring on it right now, if you want.” Derek says seriously.

“No, no rush! Plenty of time for that later,” Stiles says, panicked.

“We have to put use to those child-bearing hips while you’re still young,” Derek leers.

“I have it on good authority that your hips are better suited to bearing children than mine,” Stiles counters. The authority of his  _dick_. “Why don’t we give it a few years?” he reasons.

Derek thinks about it. “How about on your eighteenth birthday?”

Stiles groans and covers his face with his hand. “We’ll talk about it, big guy.”

 

* * *

 

Derek is on traffic duty, texting Stiles when a man in a black car speeds past him.

 _And_ he’s on his phone. Like blatantly holding his phone in front of his face while he’s driving.

Idiots these days.

Derek grumbles under his breath as he turns on his siren and flashes his lights until the car pulls over.

He gets off the cruiser and stalks over to the driver’s side of the beautiful (beautiful? Derek shrugs mentally, beautiful fits) car.

The guy doesn’t even bother putting his phone away. In fact, he goes as far as holding up a finger when Derek opens his mouth to speak. He puts his phone down (but not until after he’s finished his text) and smiles cheerfully, “Hello, officer.” Douche bag.

Derek grinds his teeth, “License and registration, please.”

“Oh, right,” the man says, sheepishly handing them over.

Derek gives them a cursory look over, “Do you know why I pulled you over- Mr. Hale, is it?”

“Is one of the brake lights out again? I keep telling my husband to take a look at the car, but he’s been busy lately,” he pouts.

“Too busy to check on a car this nice?” Derek shakes his head in mock-disappointment.

“I know, right! It’s practically a crime in itself. You think you could arrest him for me?”

“I have a feeling it would be counterproductive,” Derek says drily.

The guy’s mouth twitches. “So, is that it or-”

“Are you aware of how fast you were going?” Derek interrupts.

“Well, no. If we’re going to be honest here, I wasn’t really paying attention-”

“Seventy-two. You were going seventy-two in a thirty-five, Stiles,” Derek growls.

“Yeah, but Derek,” Stiles whines. “There was no traffic or anything, I checked!”

“I thought you weren’t really paying attention,” Derek mimics.

“No! I mean, well, yeah but-”

“Goddammit, Stiles, this is the third time this week!”

“At least I wasn’t doing ninety this time,” Stiles points out. Derek resists the urge to reacquaint his palm with his face.

“I’m going to have to give you a ticket,” he says resignedly, pulling out his pen and jotting down his idiot husband’s information.

Stiles gapes at him. “But I went slower this time!”

“You did,” Derek concedes. “Remind me to get some deputy stickers from your dad so I can give you one for your marked improvement,” he smirks.

Stiles huffs in annoyance.  “Mean.”

Derek leans forward, wrapping a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and plants a noisy kiss on his mouth, biting his lip before he pulls back and says, “You’ll get over it.” Derek rips off the ticket and hands it over. “I’ll see you at home, Stiles.”

Stiles leans out of the window. “I’ll suck your dick if you let me off just this once.”

Derek’s smile widens. “You’d suck my dick anyways.”     

Stiles crosses his arms and juts out his lip. “I’m going to tell my dad on you.”

“Good thing he likes me more, huh?” Derek teases.

Stiles mumbles something about traitor fathers and dad-stealing husbands.

“Have a good day, Mr. Hale,” Derek says gleefully.

Stiles scowls. “Fucker.”

“You love me anyways,” Derek laughs.

Stiles expression softens. “Yeah, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Okay, so this is me checking this over like six months after it was finished, and I just now realized that the first couple parts can probably be confusing. The first part (Stiles' part) happened before the whole Scott/Isaac/Lydia ambush thing and the second (Derek's) is obvs after Derek leaves the were-house (SEE WHAT I DID THERE) and goes to find Stiles (hopefully, that part wasn't too confusing at least lol)
> 
> Update (again): It is the second of December in the year of our lord 2013. Remember this day, children. This is the day my fic got a thousand kudos. I can now die happy. Well, semi-content, at least.
> 
> Update 12/25/16: awww it hit 2000k. U guys are awesome ❤️
> 
> Blame Cheese for this not being up when I thought it was going to be up. She totally got me hooked on this stupid game called Ruzzle and yeah.
> 
> I had to delete the game. It’s three a.m. Our love affair lasted about four hours.
> 
> Greenberg/Finstock = implied relationship. OTP, bitch!
> 
> So, you can uh, [addmeontumblr](http://livthelion.tumblr.com) if you want to just, like, yell at me or give me ideas or talk to me or y’know don’t, totally cool. Anywho, I love you all! Keep it classy, bitches

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to drop a comment or six. They always brighten my day c: 
> 
> Y'know, if you want to
> 
> No pressure
> 
> ahaaha


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